


The Woods

by InsaneWeasel



Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Bloodshed, Bugs & Insects, Buried Alive, Comedy, Cryptids, Drama, Emetophobia, Gen, Horror, Joe Hills Pup Pavilion, Monsters, Supernatural - Freeform, TMA had some influences on this now, Thriller, Wrong anatomy, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23353762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneWeasel/pseuds/InsaneWeasel
Summary: Inspired by the presitgious works of "My Property Isn't Normal" by Murderbird17 and "Tales From the Gas Station" by GasStationJack and such great horror movies like "Cabin in the Woods."There is something strange in the woods, he knows this. Only the redstone torch keeps them at bay. There is strange rules at play in the woods. Nothing makes sense. Or maybe it makes too much sense and he missed every single sign warning him it did. It's a whole lot of mumbo jumbo.
Relationships: TBA if needed
Comments: 34
Kudos: 88





	1. The Red Light

_Chapter 1: The Red Light in the Woods_

_The Doctor’s tip #1: “Never. Ever. Share your name while you’re here. Names have power—and none of its good.”_

He was startled by the sound of an engine and he spotted an old muscle car pulling into the dirt drive.

His own truck was off, but he had the door open with the radio playing the only radio station he could pick-up. Their music of choice was popular Hispanic rock songs from the 90s mixed with polka. Another oddity he had been adding to the list of odd things that had happened in his life after…

“Ah, sir—my good fellow,” said a voice deep and clearly American. “We spoke on the phone the other day?”

“Oh,” it clicked, and the man set down the box he had been holding, holding out a hand to shake. “Right sorry—Mr. Fan was it? Lovely car—Pontiac Firebird?”

“Yes and yes—1973, she’s a beau,” the man said. He stood an inch shorter than him, with large bushy-gray eyebrows matching a sleekly combed beard with white-hairs. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at him. “I see you’re already on your way to getting settled in. Any issues so far?”

He turned from the bearded man and cast a look around, “Erm, none I can think of. Although, it’ll be nice when I can set up an internet connection—I can’t believe I forgot to download music before coming out here.”

Fan nodded. “If you have any problems getting it installed, let us know. There’s a landline in the cabin if your cellphone’s having an issue getting reception. I just came out here to drop off an extra set of keys and make sure you hadn’t decided it was too spooky out here.” Fan leaned casually against the hood of his car. His crisp white blazer almost seemed unfitting for the dense woods behind him, but the checkered yellow and gray shirt underneath—not so much.

“Spooky?” he chortled. “No, no—I think it would take a bit more than mosquitos and dozens of trees to unsettle me.” He dusted his hands off on his dark jeans and cast a look behind him in the cabin. “Although, you did say the cabin was last used a few years ago, four was it?”

“Hm? Yes,” Fan said. “Was there something amiss?”

“Nothing, just a magazine from about 2018 was in the bathroom cabinet,” he said.

“I’ll have to get onto the cleaning crews about that—had them come down here a week ago. Bit of odd reading material for ‘em, but hmph,” Fan said waving a hand.

“Oh, I wasn’t too bothered, just thought it was a little funny,” he said with a laugh. “I’ll try to keep out of your hair—er” it occurred to him Mr. Fan was bald “—beard while I’m here, I don’t imagine it’ll be long. Six months, and all.” Fan didn’t seem too offended, his small smile unflinching.

“Well, if you need to stay longer it’ll be no trouble,” Fan passed him the set of extra keys. Another for the cabin and a larger dustier key. “That’ll be for the cellar. We’ll send a food truck once every two weeks, but if you like gardening and canning foods—that’s an option.”

He didn’t, but he’d store some of his extra boxes or something down there. He nodded all the same. “Thank-you, Mr. Fan, you’ve been a great help after…” he gestured, and Fan nodded. Fan gave him a hardy pat on the shoulder, turning to leave.

“It’s our company’s pleasure,” Fan said. “I’ll see you around. Call us if you need anything.”

“Will do,” he said, and turned back to the boxes. As the muscle-car left he idly spun the cellar key in his hand. “Bit odd of him to visit—could have just sent me this earlier,” he said to himself. Regardless, he let it go with a sigh. He eyed the boxes in the truck bed and the boxes on the porch. “Nearly done,” he muttered.

The next night and day passed in a flourish of shambling around like a rather deaf zombie struggling to make sense of his new surroundings as he had yet to find the tea bags he had packed.

During the night: he halfway made his bed to sleep in it—only pausing to commence in a one-sided duel against some rather large spiders on the mattress. He jousted with a broom until they perished or disappeared into the corners to likely take their revenge. He sprayed the room with a healthy dose of bug-spray so he could collapse exhausted onto the sheets and pass out.

And that next day: his time was spent on a mixture of cleaning and unpacking his belongings. It may have been a guilty pleasure, but he unpacked his computer before his kitchen, hoping to squeeze out a little time to work on his coding projects, but found an odd issue, but not unalien issue.

The blue screen of death.

Or rather, Window 10 being itself, had decided to go off and not know how to boot its own files up.

He shut off the PC and stared at the pile of unpacked boxes. “I could go for a good walk,” he said to himself. He had done enough for the day already and so he slipped into his trainers and out the door.

The sky was in the beginning stages of dusk and he breathed in the sharp air of greenery and dirt. He did a three-sixty walk around of the cabin to see if he could find anything noteworthy. The cellar was padlocked—the key he had been given must have unlocked it, but he’d wait until day-time for that. It was a dirty old thing—green chipped paint on its wooden doors and two gilded ornate handles that’d seen far better days. The stone around the edges of it was weathered and scuffed and the dirt treaded and devoid of plant-life. What an ominous little fixture.

Besides a few patches of wildflowers and an old barrel covered in weeds and likely more spiders, not else was around the cabin. He could go explore the woods. Just a quick peek in and then he’d be off to bed.

He wondered if there were any paths already built in—maybe an old person who rented the cabin or owned it had been a fan of walks through the woods. He outlined the edges of the clearing with his feet before finding a less dense area of shrubbery and trees he could test his luck with.

He liked the outdoors well enough, and he looked around curiously for wildlife. Plenty of birds, but no squirrels or even a chance snake. There was still plenty of mosquitos and he kicked himself for not spraying himself before stepping outside. He was considering heading back when in the darkening woods he saw an unusual red light.

A red light more similar to a router’s blinking one or a stop light in its coloring, but yet flickering much too flame-light. It was really too far away to perceive all of that, but yet—he could. It felt unnatural and he tore his eyes from it, realizing the woods were much too dark to be walking through—he should wait until morning. He was only a short way from the cabin—he could turn back and address it another time, but if it was a fire—he’d be awfully stupid to ignore it.

With how dense these woods are, they’d all be aflame within the hour if that flame grew and he’d be a man in hell on Earth.

He scowled at his rather bad choice of pants—a pair of joggers that had ridden up to his shins and socks that could not cover that distance, leaving an ample point for ground crawling bugs and poisonous plants to attack. Yet, he pressed on in the distance of the small wavering red light in the distance.

As the woods grew darker around him, he fished out his phone and turned the flashlight on, but it quickly became apparent it was not a match for the enveloping darkness. He’d never been out like this in the woods—except maybe when he was a child, but not as an adult.

It was a bit of a spook—suddenly having looming shapes at the edges of your light and the sound of cicadas, of the wind, of cracks of twigs and shuffling of bushes filling the unseeable. Yet. He eyed the red light in the distance.

He was closer, much. He reckoned it would be only five more minutes of walking.

He pressed on.

The woods grew more alive around him. If he stilled his walking, he could almost swear he heard footsteps behind his. Quicker and lighter ones that snapped off the ground as if it were on fire. If he strained his ears over the scream of the cicadas, he could swear he heard a sound like a giggle. It was daunting now—but no matter how many times he swept the phone flashlight over his surroundings—only trees and tall grasses and ferns of sorts were visible.

He felt this must have been what Fan meant. If he had thought to get here in the night instead of the day, he would have felt this sense of dread while unpacking, but he had been smart—at least for the unpacking. But now, well now he felt like a spoon. Go into the woods at dusk and investigate a red glowing light—if it turned out to be just a generator or something of Fan’s company—well, he’d feel like a fool.

He stumbled over a root of the tree and fell on his hands and knees into a clearing. The fact he could see his fingers clearly with his phone still on the ground, flashlight face-down meant he must have finally reached the red flickering light. He glanced up and there it was.

For such a small thing, hardly bright enough to light more than five feet diameter around it—it sure was visible in the woods. It was either a stroke of luck or this thing in the woods was cursed. It was a small red flame on the end of a notched stick resting in a hole on an old picnic table. He stood himself up, dusting his hands off and he picked up his phone. It had not broken in the fall, but the screen the back of the phone was smudged with dirt.

He turned off the flashlight, and took a quick photograph of the red flame. He wasn’t sure he had ever seen anything before like it, and that being said—he was sure not many others had either. When he got internet set up he was sure going to post this somewhere.

He put his phone back in his pocket and looked around the clearing. It was as the picnic table suggested. An old picnic site. A stump of what might have been a grill sat next to a pile of ashes and two picnic tables were arranged a few feet away evenly. The picnic table holding the red flame on a stick—a torch he guessed—was the only table still relatively intact—and that was saying something. It was missing a bench and looked as if someone had spent a good amount of time kicking it into the ground.

The other was in pieces, only a vague suggestion of a picnic table by the rusted frame and scraps of wood clinging to it.

He needed a way back to his cabin and his phone flashlight wasn’t going to cut it. And he had traveled all the way out here for a harmless torch. Maybe not harmless—it could burn out and catch the table aflame, then the woods—which begged the conclusion:

This must have been recently put here.

Which begged more questions than he wanted to think about late at night alone in the woods without a weapon to his name and away from civilized society.

He stood a foot from the picnic table. The flame was flickering to and fro, unperturbed by his thoughts, but now that he was closer he could see at the end of the stick where the flame was—there was a red powder coating the edges and top, the flame rising from it.

He pulled it from the hole it was resting in carefully, eying the flame. It moved with him before adjusting, continuing its usual bob and weave on the end of the stick. He felt no heat radiating from the torch and with a large dose of curiosity creeping into him, he moved his other hand closer to the flame. No heat. He took a breath, and dipped his fingers into the flame.

It felt…electric. Like he had zapped himself, but after the initial burst, it felt like pins and needles. He withdrew his fingers and found no burn, not even a touch of red—just the tingling feeling.

“Huh,” he murmured.

“So, you’ll be one of those ones,” said a voice.

He wheeled around and he had to thank a higher power the flame didn’t hurt him because he think he plunged his nose straight into it as he turned to look behind him in the direction the voice came. He held the torch out and saw a glimpse of red fabric that moved behind a tree and a distinctly familiar giggle.

It hadn’t been his imagination earlier.

Despite it being the middle of the night, a bird sang out a soft trill overhead. A three-note high-low-high.

“Who—who are you?” he stammered. “What are you doing here?” He caught himself and took a deep breath. Don’t sound scared—be tough. “This is private property.”

The musical giggle again and he saw a glimpse of red behind another tree again.

“Who. Are. You?” he repeated harsher this time.

“Who are you?” the voice said. Closer.

He backed further into the clearing, away from the trees.

“It’d be rude, you go first,” he said, and tried to look past the light to find the red again. He found it. A red jumper on a man sitting in the tree closest to the clearing. He was perched on a branch in it—one foot drawn up to his chest in what must have been a precarious balancing act. The other dangling one cast long shadows in the glow of the red light.

Less frightening was a black and white shoe with colorful shoelaces at the end of the visible leg dangling from the tree.

“The name’s Grian,” said the voice.

He raised the torch higher and took an instinctive step back, colliding with the picnic table. It—he—wasn’t quite human looking enough. The face of the…Grian…in the tree was mostly human, but where the eyes should be were two beady black eyes like one of a weasel, with the shape of them too. The rest was deceptively human—with light-brown hair hanging in a messy fringe and the red jumper’s sleeves pushed up to the elbow with human-like hands gripping the branch, but at the ends of the bony fingers there were no nails. No claws, at least. Just a strange bareness.

Grian’s eyes swept over him, or he assumed he did, because his head tilted.

“And what do I call you?” Grian asked, but then held up one of the unnatural fingers. “But don’t give me your real name—that’ll end this much too soon.”

 _End what?_ He regained his footing and pushed himself off the picnic table he had fallen into. With a cautious step, he approached Grian who drew his foot up as he drew closer with the torch. It was a morbid sense of confirmation he needed, to really reveal that yes—he hadn’t imagined the odd fingers on his hands and yes—the eyes were indeed pitch black empty voids.

“What on earth—” he almost said ‘are you,’ but there was a glint to Grian’s eyes. Too much intelligence—Grian was mostly human looking—it might be rude to ask that. “You?” He murmured lost for words. Grian straightened and giggled again, raising a hand to his mouth.

“Me? If you’re going to judge me based on appearance, you might want to shave the caterpillar that crawled onto your face while you were asleep.”

With the weirdness of the day, he almost took the man seriously and raised a hand to his upper lip only to feel his moustache. He immediately understood and if he hadn’t felt so flabbergasted, he might have had a witty retort. He was standing with an odd flame in the woods with a not-quite human creature—or maybe he was human and just was wearing some type of prosthetics or…

“What is this mumbo jumbo?” he muttered and Grian’s eyebrows lifted. The man? dropped from the tree—landing askew in front of him before straightening. Grian was much shorter than he—the brown fringe of hair coming up to about chest level.

“Mumbo Jumbo! I’ll call you that—Mumbo for short!”

“That isn’t my name,” he said immediately. “It’s—” Grian shushed and nearly slapped his hand over his mouth, but then recoiled as it drew near the red flame. The mustached man obliged and was silent and he moved the red torch between them curiously. Grian took a step back. It wasn’t his imagination—Grian was averse to the red-flame.

 _Strange_.

“That isn’t my name,” he repeated quietly, once he was sure Grian wasn’t coming towards him again.

“Exactly! See—Mumbo—you don’t want to give me your name.”

“Right…I don’t?” he asked. He kept the torch between himself and Grian as Grian walked to the side of him and he turned to follow his movements.

Grian held up a finger. “No. You don’t. You don’t want to give me your name. You don’t want to give anyone your name here—and they don’t want to give you theirs.”

“You just gave me your name?” he questioned.

“It isn’t my real name,” Grian said.

“Well…okay?” He was puzzled. “Why don’t I want to give you my real name?”

Grian stopped his pacing and gestured wildly out towards the woods. “See, Mumbo—my good man. You’re very new here—as they all are at some point,” he said more to himself, “and names are easily taken by promise goblins—so…”

“Wait, hang on! Promise—what?” He couldn’t help the bubble of laughter.

Grian’s smile dropped. He rolled his eyes—or he guessed he did, and the beady black eyes narrowed. Grian took a step towards him, that was immediately halted by the red flame. Grian’s eyes went to that before going back to him. He raised his hands in a small show of defeat and took two steps back.

“Mumbo, Mumbo, Mumbo—where do I begin. Let’s begin with me, I like me.” Grian turned away from him. The tag of his jumper was sticking out. “If you weren’t holding that torch—you would be very, very, afraid of me. And then very, very dead—that can be said about a lot of things in these woods. That torch means they are very, very not going to dead you, yet.”

“What?” he asked incredulously. “I’m not sure I’m understanding. Are you threatening me?”

“Yes,” Grian said, dramatically looking over his shoulder.

“Can you…not threaten me?”

“…No.”

“Oh…” he wasn’t quite sure what to do next. Did he run now?

“Where was I…erm…Mumbo—you have found out about redstone, which not everyone does that comes here, so congrats on completing step one!” Grian spread his arms wide spinning to face him. “And because it is vastly more entertaining for me, I’m helping you with step two—don’t give your name. Ever.”

“Redstone?” He held up the torch, and Grian nodded. “I—I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I just live in the—”

“Cabin in the woods. Concorp. Yada yada—some dramatic backstory brought you here—it’s only temporary—you’ll be calling loved one’s tomorrow or installing internet in the next week,” Grian rattled off, holding up an arm and mimicking speech with his hand. A parrot flew onto that outstretched arm startling him, but not so much Grian who looked at the parrot—then they both looked back at him.

“How did you—this has happened before?” he questioned.

Grian held up a finger. “Nope—no more information from me, that makes this much more dull. Although,” Grian exchanged a look with the parrot, “I can tell you this—you might want to learn to talk to animals, because you won’t be calling anyone. Or messaging anyone.”

“Because you’re going to kill me?” he asked.

“What? No?” Grian looked up to the left in thought. “At least not yet—but no. Mumbo. You’re…trapped here.”

He was trapped here. He couldn’t be? He could take his truck and leave at any time, that was ridiculous. They would come and install internet it would be…

“This isn’t some type of purgatory or groundhog day…?” he asked feeling silly.

“Don’t know what you mean by the latter—or the former come to think of it,” Grian shrugged and the parrot flew off. He looked at it regretfully as it perched in a tree and then jabbed a finger in his direction.

“Right—well my work is done, unless you want to lower that torch and give up already.”

“No?” he wasn’t going to directly ask if he was threatening him again.

“So—now we can start this over. Hello, my name is Grian—and you are?” Grian held out his hand for a handshake.

He—Mumbo—didn’t take it. “H-hello. I guess…I’m Mumbo.”

…

Mumbo made it home that night in a right tiff. He didn’t want to let go of the redstone torch after he entered his home out of fear, fear he’d awake to Grian crouching over his bed to presumably scoop out his eyeballs or some other dastardly fate.

Instead he left it on his nightstand and huddled up in bed, fingers typing quickly on his phone about what he had seen. He had a message ready to go when his spotty connection let up. So far, he was greeted by the red exclamation mark in a circle telling him his message had yet to deliver.

Fantastic. Truly. Grian was telling the truth—or maybe Grian was doing this. Mumbo had a headache now from all this. This—being out here—was supposed to solve his issues, not create new more disturbing ones. He’d call Con Corp over the landline in the morning, see if he could talk to Mr. Fan, and clear this all up.”

For now. Mumbo didn’t think he was going to sleep. His eyes darted to the window at every howl of the wind and he almost inched to look under his bed like a young child scared of monsters. “I’ve truly gone mad,” Mumbo muttered to himself.

Despite his fear he did end up nodding off, and he clutched the redstone torch to his chest the next morning as he wandered around his house—fearful of what may wait around every corner. He kept it in every room as he reluctantly began to unpack. The kitchen was set up now, but he wondered if he should finish the rest of his unpacking. He might just move out if anything else disturbing happened.

It was bright outside—a bright cheerful day. The sun was overhead and not a cloud dared obscure it and for such a nice sight, it unnerved him. He could drive his truck off the property and take a trip to the gas station nearby and fill-up—a small little nothing to reassure himself Grian was wrong. But first, he’d call Con Corp.

He dialed their number on the landline and held the phone up to his ear, a dial tone. Another, another.

_“Hello, thank-you for calling Con Corp customer assistance line. If you are a business associate or Class A or B member holder—press 1. If you a law firm representing a client who believes they’ve suffered harm due to our services, press 2. If you are a law firm representing a client who believes there is a copyright or patent infringement, press 3. If you are a Class D, E or F holder—press 4. If you are calling about a financial inquiry for our clean-up services, press 5.”_

“How long does this go on for?” Mumbo muttered.

_“If you are calling about a financial inquiry for our general services, press 6. If you’d like to speak to a specific Con Corp staff member, press 7 and be prepared to enter their sixteen number ID.”_

Mumbo checked the business card in his wallet Fan had given him. There was no such number. Rats.

_“If you would like to issue a complaint, press 8, and be prepared to answer a few questions. If you are a class C or Z or holder, press 9. For all other calls—please stay on the line, a representative will be with you shortly.”_

Mumbo stayed on the line. And he stayed. And he pulled out his cellphone and played a few games of Tetris. Strangely, the same polka-tunes he heard previously played on the radio were the hold tone which was occasionally interrupted by brief Con Corp messages such as:

_“No one is as innovative as Con Corp. Thanks to the power of the Vex Processing Engine, or our VPE, we get our products out quicker and more efficient than any other leading company. The VPE is our staple to our brand and we consistently strive to improve and optimize the engine to make your lives easier, and our lives a little more brighter. Con Corp—we put the con in confidence.”_

_“Unsure if Con Corp is right for you? Listen to this testimonial from Mr. Goody Scar. ‘My life was incomplete without Con Corp’s tech, but after their installation—I found my life a-mazing.’”_

_“Con Corp is an environmentally conscious company—so we do our best to eliminate waste and filter out harmful substances which we then use for more beneficial substances—like our line of caffeine drinks, energy drinks and pills. What’s the difference between our caffeine and energy drinks—the sugar content and quite possibly how likely it is to dye your internal organs funky new colors!”_

“I’m starting to think this company’s a bit shady,” Mumbo muttered. He completed another round of Tetris before shifting his feet and holding the polka-playing landline out. He was having no luck—the polka music never ended, and no one ever picked up. He had called Con Corp plenty of times before this on his cellphone with no issue—maybe it was Fan’s personal number he had on his phone.

Mumbo checked his call history and his gut twisted. Same number. Different results. Strange, too strange.

He reluctantly put the phone down and decided plan B was in order. He’d drive to the gas station and see if their landline worked, and if something seemed too odd—maybe he’d bail completely. Cut his losses—well. No. Maybe not that severe. He’d come back and pack-up his things, then cut his losses. His computer wasn’t a worthless machine, after all.

He grabbed the redstone torch but hesitated at the idea of setting it inside his truck. Now where was it supposed to sit—the cup-holder?

A few minutes later, Mumbo was tapping his fingers to a particularly nice Spanish rock-song and the redstone torch sat in the cup-holder beside him. It hadn’t yet caught anything aflame and caused him to go spiraling off the road, so that was a blessing. He reached the edge of the property and felt his breath catch in his throat. The dirt path was winding down to the paved road and for a few moments he had a fear he would hit a barrier—a Cabin in the Woods situation brought to life.

His truck continued onward, surprising him and likely that…Grian. He’d made a fuss over nothing. Mumbo relaxed and recalled the direction to the gas station with relative ease. It wasn’t hard to find either. It was the only one around and was colored blue and gray with old faded advertisements still taped to the windows and forgotten about. One very large poster from 2005 advertised rock concert in a venue forty-five miles from here caught his eyes--mostly, because someone had drawn a charming little moustache on the lead singer. 

He pulled his truck to a halt in one of the parking spots and stepped out, stifling a yawn as he did. The familiar flashing signs of alcohol and tobacco advertisements alongside a half-working OPEN sign quelled his riled nerves and he stepped inside, a small bell ringing as he entered.

No one was at the counter of the gas station, but he couldn’t blame them. He was the only patron and besides the hum of a soda-machine at the back, it was mostly quiet. He poked around, hoping someone would return to the front counter so he could ask about using the landline. He could try his phone right now too—he could have been in a dead-zone.

Mumbo put his finger to the scanner on the back of his smartphone. Nothing. Odd, he tapped the sleep button. Nothing. He held it down—and his phone flashed low battery.

That didn’t make much sense—he’d sworn it was last at thirty-six percent before he came here—had he left a heavy app on and it lost battery. Mumbo repocketed his phone and tried to shake it off. It wasn’t what Grian said—why should he trust some strange man from the woods.

He busied himself eying the strange gray stains on the floor and the mix of brandless and familiarly branded items on the shelf and half wondered if it’d be a bad idea to pick up a pack of crisps when he heard someone walking past. He turned and saw a disheveled man in an unzipped hoodie pulled over his head, dark sunglasses and a blue polo stride past him. He caught sight of the name tag which had scrawled on it in red ink “Ren Diggity Dog.”

The name thing.

Mumbo shook it off—it wasn’t proof. It couldn’t be. He grabbed a pack of random crisps and went to the counter where an old CD player was softly chugging out crooning Johnny Cash songs. A comic book lay open on the counter and “Ren” was reading it. How he was through the sunglasses in a halfway lit gas station where the overhead lights were on their last leg was beyond him.

“Excuse me?” Mumbo asked, setting the crisps on the counter. Ren glanced up at him. “Just these and could I use your landline for a few moments?”

Ren reached a hand up and lowered his sunglasses, staring at Mumbo with strangely golden-amber eyes. “Sure man, I can let you use it. It’s a quarter and a nickel per minute in the machine—no exceptions.”

“I have a dollar,” Mumbo held out, but Ren shook his head. He rang up the crisps and crossed his arms on the counter.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk—no can do, buckaroo. If it was a five-minute call—five quarters and five nickels. I don’t make the rules, man. I just follow ‘em,” Ren said.

Mumbo sighed and pulled out his wallet and rooted around. “I don’t have coins.”

“Then no can help on the phone issue—but I can take credit card on those chips, easy-peasy,” Ren said. “Just pop your card in the reader.”

Mumbo did though, but not happily. He usually had some change, but it was all gone. Strange. He sighed and took the bag of crisps and told himself he’d come back here tomorrow with some change and call someone, but before he left...

“Ren?” Mumbo asked, and Ren looked at him. “Is there anything weird in the woods?”

“Weird?” Ren snorted. “Man, I just work at this gas station.”

The level of awkwardness of grilling the homely half-shaven man in front of him almost deterred him, but Mumbo pressed on. “Do many people come through here?”

“The delivery man does every two weeks—his name’s Keralis. My coworker Falsey too,” he answered nonchalantly. Ren had raised his sunglasses again and was reading his comic again.

“But does a new person every year moves out to that cabin?”

Ren shrugged. “Sorry, don’t pay attention.”

“Who owns this gas station?” Mumbo asked and Ren sighed loudly at that. He lowered the sunglasses and fixed Mumbo with a stern look.

“Man, can you not? I am paid twelve-dollars an hour to deal with this shit—I’m not on jeopardy. Search it on the internet, dude,” Ren said, closing his comic book. “If you’re not going to buy something, can you head out. Killing my vibe.”

Mumbo sighed as well, but for likely very different reasons than Ren did. He was doing it to put a lid on the anxiety surging up through his chest. “I’m sorry for asking so many questions, but I just—something odd happened and—”

“And I’m paid twelve dollars an hour,” Ren cut him off. “Not a therapist, my dude.” The sunglasses went back up his nose again and Mumbo reluctantly departed, heading back into his truck with a feeling of defeat. He could go further up the road—drive on out. Just to test the limits. Was he going crazy? He must be. He eyed the flickering redstone torch beside him and then the paved road stretching onwards into the horizon.

“Don’t panic yet,” Mumbo told himself. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed back to the cabin.

That night he fixed himself a sandwich and tried the phone line again, but nothing different happened. Which was more unnerving than he had thought a simple thought like that could be. The phone repeated the same ConCorp messages in the same order. It could just be customary, but…Mumbo felt something was off.

He listened to the options again and decided to try each of them. He pressed 1.

“Enter your sixteen-digit ID.”

He guessed a random set of numbers and entered it.

“User not found.”

Mumbo guessed another sixteen, 1’s and 0’s just to be clever.

“Enter your password.”

Wow, he had guessed someone’s actual ID. He tried to remember what 1’s and 0’s he hit for future reference, but no luck. It must have been on a timer, because after no guesses it said, “Please try again later and went back to the reference menu. This time he tried option 9.

“Enter your sixteen-digit ID.”

So, that again. He recorded the 0’s and 1’s he put down, this time just the binary for the Unicode letters MJ.

“User not found.”

He let the timer expire and sighed. He tried 8 for complaints and had to quickly jerk the phone from his ear as three shrill loud beeps played. After that, it went right back to the menu.

Mumbo wondered something—the kind of thought someone gets in their head when paranoia has gone from nipping at the heels to tearing at the ankles. He grabbed the telephone cable connected to the phone and considered disconnecting it.

He didn’t. Instead he sighed and went to his computer and tried to boot it again.

Once again, no luck

His phone was working fine again, having booted up after charging. He still had no reception, but at least there was that. He watched a movie on it he had downloaded previously to fall asleep, his eyes on the redstone torch dancing in the corner of his room.


	2. The Poultry Man and a Walk in the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Zombies. Wrong anatomy. Booby-traps. Reader discretion advised. This is horror.

_Chapter 2:_

_The Poultry Man and a Walk in the Woods_

_The Doctor’s Tip #2: “If it sounds too good to be true—it’s probably already planning to kill you.”_

He spent the morning eating a bowl of cereal with the polka music from the hold tune playing in the background—he was determined to stay on hold for as long as it took for someone to answer. From sunup to sundown on a Wednesday—someone was bound to answer.

Mumbo reluctantly unpacked the rest of his boxes because if he was expecting an answer to his questions, it didn’t seem to be coming soon and he wanted a proper meal.

After four hours of being on hold he had finished unpacking his things and was now casually seeing what happened if he inserted an object into the redstone flame. So far, he knew it didn’t affect paper or light anything ablaze and it could power a battery.

Mumbo wasn’t quite sure what compelled him to do so, but he held a flashlight over the redstone flame and to his surprise, the flashlight turned on—shining a red light similar to the redstone torch. It eventually wore off when he left the flashlight on for an hour after exposing it to the redstone, but it was a curious start. This torch could power things—what the extent of ‘things’ was could not completely be explored, as Mumbo still had reservations about shoving his phone or computer in the flame—but he did reluctantly shove his tablet into the flame. It just blinked on and showed the charging screen.

“That’s neat,” Mumbo said to himself. He lowered the redstone torch to the phone still on hold. Nothing changed there. “It’d be nice if the redstone torch could fix this too.

Seven hours of being on hold went by and Mumbo was doing some basic trials with the redstone torch. He had assembled some old parts from a box of computer parts he wasn’t using, a few odd ends from his toolbox and the trusty flashlight from earlier.

His worries had dried up some with the interesting redstone to explore in front of him. He had learned a few things:

First, wires worked with the redstone torch. He could put one touching the flame and the other touching an object and it now was as decent as an electrical outlet, except far more diverse in use.

Two, the longer the flashlight was charged on it, the longer the light could stay red for. It seemed to work in increments of seven minutes would equal 45 minutes of red light, 14 would equal an hour and a half and so on. An easy formula would be 45/7*n so if he left it charging for an hour it’d be good for over six hours. He wondered if electronics affected by the redstone carried the same properties towards Grian or anything like him.

Three, metal didn’t have an effect on redstone.

Four, while computer parts didn’t work much—the circuitry they reminded Mumbo of inspired him to try basic circuits with the redstone. All worked out as intended.

He reached ten hours on hold by the end of his experiments and reluctantly put the phone up, calling his attempt at getting someone to pick-up a failure. Although, he could go for a walk in the woods and if he was feeling brave, he could only take the flashlight, to see if it had the same effect.

However, Mumbo was not feeling brave. He was feeling nervous, frustrated and a mix of wonder. He wondered if Grian did attack him, did he have anything on him he could consider a weapon.

He was not carrying an exercise dumbbell out into the woods. Nor an old pipe. He supposed he’d hope Grian was not going to attack him.

Mumbo kept the flashlight wedged deep in his jeans pocket where it stuck halfway out and held the red torch out in front of him as he entered the woods. It was twilight again, and the darkness of the woods was all encompassing. The path behind him seemed to disappear.

There were bird calls. Low-high-low. Low-high-low. Mumbo raised the torch and cast a look around himself. Nothing. Was that the bird-song that had been sung when Grian was around? It didn’t sound quite right. Low-high-low. Low-high-low. Mumbo frowned and felt the hair on the back of his neck rise.

A few seconds in the damned woods and he was already feeling spooked. He called out, hesitant, “Grian?” Low-low-low. Low-low-low.

“Someone else?” High.

“Who?” Low-high-low. Low-high-low.

Maybe they were notes, but Mumbo didn’t know notes by ear. He chose a direction to go in and stayed resolute. He’d need a compass to navigate this place properly. It was easy to get turned around. Mumbo was sure he was heading in the direction of the picnic tables from the other day.

Low-high-low. Low-high—it stopped. Suddenly and with no warning. The bird song was quiet.

_Low. Low. Low._

It put a right strong fear in his heart. Something in him told him the birds were singing a warning call. He swept the torch out in front of him, cautious. Nothing was moving in the trees around him. Mumbo kept his eyes peeled. He could hear the faint sound of branches snapping—but too far away to make out where it was coming from.

It could be the wildlife.

But was it normal wildlife?

On the breeze he could smell something sickly sweet. Like rotting mulberries or pomegranates. Cloying perfume in a confined space. It clung to the air and when Mumbo breathed in it felt like breathing in cleaner. It stung.

Not normal wild-life then, or someone just leaked at vat of lady’s perfume over the area.

A yapping sound. Like a chihuahua. Mumbo turned in the direction it came from, peering down towards the ground of the dense bushes and expecting a small dog. He saw the snout? of something emerging from the bushes—an odd snout. No split in it. No visible teeth despite the low growl starting to rise into the air. It was also not chihuahua sized.

Mumbo took a step back. Following the snout coming from the bush came talons attached to a patchy dog-like leg. At first, he mistook the patches missing from the leg as a poor mutt with a horrible case of mange, but even from a distance the redstone torch reflected off the scales; patches a fur broken up by reptilian skin.

Another step back as this creature’s head fully poked through. Eight magenta eyes stared into him. The creature was dark like the void and vaguely dog shaped. It fully emerged and for that moment, Mumbo found his feet frozen solid. It was not dog sized. It was small car sized. It shook a very normal dog-like tail in slow easy arcs.

It raised its very floppy dog-like ears, listening to his breathing. It sounded loud to him now. Painfully so.

And with its much too sinister head, it pointed it in his direction. It stared at him. It had no visible mouth. Two eyes were in the proper spot for eyes on a dog, but three more were trailing down the middle of that, and three more were on top. A spider of a dog head. Its shape was wrong. Too triangular and large for its slender body. Off-settling.

It stared into his soul and tilted its head up, as if to bark—but its snout did not open. There were no sharp fangs bared. No.

The skin at the start of the snout peeled back. Six individual petals of skin and flesh and muscle peeling back, as simple as a peel from an orange. A squelching noise as it cleanly came off the bone, green oozing from the skull beneath. They framed the skull—which the magenta eyes still rested in—sitting in voids of inky blackness and staring at him. A horn was visible on the skull that wasn’t visible when covered by its skin and this time—the snout opened. Six snouts in the shape of the petaled flesh and various sets of teeth.

It loud a mighty roar filtered through the sound of a chihuahua.

Mumbo’s good sense returned to him and he turned on tail and ran. Another high-pitched howl sent his ears ringing. The damned birds had been the Pied Piper. Warning him of death and danger? Damn him! Mumbo heard the snapping of twigs and trees and jaws behind him. Teeth gnashing like chains on a saw, grinding, rumbling.

He felt branches, thin and wiry ones, whip his skin. Leaving welts on his exposed face and hands as he battered through the woods like a clumsy bull. A high pitched-yowl behind him and he could feel cold-heavy breath on the back of his neck and something acidic dripping from the snout of the likely beast behind him.

He forced himself to run faster, his lungs heaving with the effort. His right hand collided against a tree and the item in his hand was rattled.

The redstone torch, could it do something? Anything to deter it. It was still in his hand, sweat making it slide in his grip as he ran, and Mumbo gripped it tighter. It hadn’t deterred the monster to begin with, why would it now?

Mumbo risked a glance back just as his foot didn’t make contact with the ground. A sheer hill. Mumbo tumbled, tucking his chin closer to his stomach and wrapping his arms over his face as he tumbled. He pulled his long legs in to keep from hopefully being de-limbed by some sharp rock or other unfortunate beast. His tumble was interrupted by first, the feeling of wet mud covering him, and then cold water.

Mumbo opened his eyes and was greeted by the sight of the dog-monster still pursuing him further up the hill but coming down fast and the rapid river he was now within. He swam with the current, as it willed him further away from the beast, and luck would have him, it didn’t try to follow him into the water. He last saw it stopping by the place he fell in as he glanced back before turning and heading back up the hill.

Mumbo was almost too relieved by his dumb luck. He stumbled right into a monster and right away from it.

He fought the stream and swam to shore where he gripped a rock lodged in the mud and pulled himself free. Sitting on wet mud wasn’t his favorite thing in the world, but he needed a proper breather. He sat there, palms pressed into his eyes and waited. Deep breath in. Out. In. Out. Until he could breathe without pain in his lungs.

Palms.

Bare palms.

Mumbo moved his hands away from his face quickly and glanced around himself and then patted himself down. The redstone torch was gone. He had the flashlight still in his pocket, but when he pulled it out and flicked it on…a soft hiss. It fizzled and Mumbo tapped it against his palm, but that must have been its dying breath. It flicked out.

He was wet. Lost. And without his only defense from some of these beasts. Mumbo glanced around, the copy-pasted trees everywhere, nothing truly distinguishable. Fantastic.

The river had to lead somewhere. He didn’t want to yet follow it in the direction he had come from, because that was also the same direction as the dog-beast. He guessed there was no harm in seeing where it led to, was there? Mumbo stood up, reluctantly pocketing the broken flashlight and cringing at the double squelching of his socks against his shoes and his shoes against the mud.

His walk was uneventful, if not highly unpleasant and in the now darkened sky, miserable and terrifying. The moon was high and bright, but through the canopy of trees he could scarcely save himself from tripping over rocks and roots alike or divots in the ground.

Nothing leaped out of the darkness surrounding him and attacked him, but he felt watched. Ogled. As if millions of eyes watched him with amusement and he could see them if only he could see out of the corner of his eyes.

Mumbo kept his hands close to his sides. One gripped the flashlight. The other was folded into a fist. His shoulders tensed at every noise and his jaw was locked. Teeth ground together as Mumbo tried to be aware of everything all at once.

His walk was only interrupted by the eventual answer to: where does the river lead?

A lake.

It was not a large one, but it would still be a squint to see across it. There was nothing in the lake. No feeding-docks, boat docks or a buoy in the middle. Just still water. It was brighter here at least, the open sky fed Mumbo with moonlight, light that bounced off the still water and his eyes as he stared up into it.

He wondered if it would be a bad idea to stay here until morning. He would be able to see around himself, and there wasn’t a visible threat. Maybe there was one, but for the moment, Mumbo took a seat on an old fallen tree and sighed.

The eerie stillness of the water unnerved him, but he preferred it to the total darkness of the woods.

Near the edge of the water, his eyes caught sight of what looked to be three sticks poking up out of the water. He eyed them. They poked up further out of the water. Mumbo stood up alarmed. Soon, a pitchfork head was revealed and then a not-quite human head.

Patches of hair hung off a partially rotted face with algae and moss hanging from the decomposing skin. Translucent bit of skin hung off parts of the body, as if the man had had his skin partially shredded from his bone by the world’s largest cheese grater. Skeletal fingers were revealed, as crisp and white as a stack of fresh papers from the printer, and a sound between a mix of cards shuffling and a low groan echoed from its mouth as it tilted its rotting jaw hanging off its skull upward. Where teeth in the jaw should be, there were things like broken class and jagged rocks, forcibly impaled in a human skull and welded there by the cruelest soldering iron ever wielded. Clothes hung off it malformed body like wet-leaves on a dying branch, senseless and scattered, shaking and shifting.

It raised the pitchfork in its hand and with a cracking sound in its boney body—it lunged at him. Mumbo scarcely had the good mind to react, and he threw his unwilling body sideways, tearing his eyes from the horrifying rotting zombie cliché he knew, and never thought he’d see.

It shouldn’t be able to turn as quick as it did. But with those feet—feet that at first looked inhumanly big were now revealed to be chained to cement blocks it rattled and suddenly spawn. It caught the edge of his arm with the pitchfork, and it veered close enough to his body, even in the dim light he could see that pitchfork piercing his skin would need an instant tetanus shot. He was in that case lucky. It ripped the sleeve of his damp jacket but did not mar his skin.

With how close the creature got he could also smell it over the algae-lake water smell. It smelled like rotting fish and pus. That sickly smell of something dead that overwhelmed his nose and made him taste bile on his tongue.

“Stop that,” Mumbo yelled, in a vain hope this might be a creature that understood language. It didn’t or worse, did and did not care. It lunged again and Mumbo darted back a few steps, but even as he paused, it continued, and he was forced to keep backpedaling.

Another groan like the last, except instead of cards shuffling, it was a shirt tearing. The ripping sound coming from its throat sent chills down his spine. It came from behind him and he realized in horror he was being surrounded.

He had wandered into an area where the woods were elevated by a good three meters. A small cliff where water had once risen etched out. He was between two zombified humans and stuck near the water and cliff. Mumbo glanced at the cliff. He could pull himself upwards if he had enough time, but the creatures were pressing in on him.

The new one lunged with its weapon of choice—a broken shovel—and Mumbo dove forward. He shouldn’t have, but the cliff was unyielding. Forward near the water was not. If he had more room he could run past them, but they were too quick. He heard a gurgling yowl, as if someone was screaming in pain underwater and another like them came from the water, hands grabbing at Mumbo. It was weaponless, but it hung its terrifying jaw open, eyeless sockets peering at him.

The first zombie, the pitchfork wielding one swung at him, and Mumbo risked it. He tried dodging past the zombie. It scraped his pants leg’ its shot clearly not the best. It tore through the calf area of his jeans, but he supposed he should be thankful he chose loose-fitting clothes today just in-case he had to run, because they had another good use—not being cut open on first swing.

If it got close enough to him, the loose clothes wouldn’t save him.

Mumbo wasn’t boxed in anymore, but he could see heads rising from the lake water. He had to get back out of there. The muddy slope he climbed down earlier to get here now looked treacherously to climb back up. He needed space between him and the zombies.

Perhaps that dumbbell would have been handy, if only—Mumbo stared at a rock. Without much other thought, he picked it up and as if when he was a child playing dodgeball in a schoolyard where not an adult reasonable enough to stop them could interfere, he threw it at the zombie’s chest. He had never been good at headshots and they had drilled it into them as a child not to hit other children in the heads but thank the lord above he was tall.

Because it hit the zombie in the head anyway.

The zombie fell back. He hoped it would fall to the ground, or comically lose its head, but it appeared fazed—which was good enough for now.

Mumbo darted up the muddy slope, his shoes slid a few times on the mud, but he didn’t care. He threw himself forward until he was up the slope and panting. He was on his hands-and-knees as he took a rest on a patchy part of grass.

After realizing he was still

The zombies didn’t follow. Their eyeless sockets turned up towards him, but they didn’t try to climb the slope. Mumbo nearly laughed in relief. Unbelievable.

His laughter died in his throat when one of the zombies, the one he hit, threw the pitchfork and it pierced into the ground a centimeter from his left hand. He stared at the zombie and to his dawning horror, with its cement-trapped feet it began to climb up the slope. More zombies behind it followed, some clutching their own weapons, others outstretching hands towards Mumbo.

He stood up and despite his cold fingers, he gripped them around the pitchfork and tried to pull it from the ground to use as his own weapon, but it was strangely slimy. A substance came off on his fingers as he pulled on it, like a frog’s mucus and he gave-up quickly. The zombie was nearing him.

Mumbo tensed his legs, and prepared to run, but one last thing to stop the creatures. He pulled out his flashlight and threw it straight at the zombie and took off running again.

…

He hoped it was near daylight, but time seemed slower. He had run until he was out of breath and the zombies hadn’t followed. Or if they did, they were too far behind. Or maybe they weren’t. He was out of the light of the lake and surrounded by darkness once more, stumbling blindly through the woods. He had stumbled away from the river he had tried to follow at some point and now he could only resolve himself to keep heading in one direction. It would eventually lead out, wouldn’t it? It would lead to something.

Standing still seemed the most dangerous. Zombies? There had been zombies? And what about that beast? Was this all a dream?

No, what was terrifying real is if he patted down his pockets, only his keys—wedged far down in his pockets were still there. Even in the relative depth of his pockets, when he had yanked out the flashlight it must have loosened his wallet, because it was gone. He hoped he didn’t have to find out the zombies knew how to purchase something or redeem his spare gift-cards.

Although, given what happened. He wasn’t sure he could use his own cards.

After what he did.

Mumbo sighed and decided to take a small rest stop against a sturdy large tree. His jacket and shirt had dried off, but his pants were stiff and caked with mud, yet still felt simultaneously uncomfortably wet. He tried not to focus on the feeling, but it was highly uncomfortable. One more issue to add to the lot.

And his hair was a disaster. Sweat and water had undone whatever naturally balance he could usually get it to maintain. It was now going whatever way it pleased.

Mumbo leaned against the tree, closing his eyes for a brief spell. His ears were much too alert to let himself actually drift off, but he needed to see true darkness behind his eyes for a moment, and the blinding darkness of the woods.

_High-low-high._

Bird calls? Again.

_High-low-high._

The last two times he heard birds it was a dangerous threat. And only one of them had been deterred by a redstone torch, which he no longer had. Mumbo opened his eyes and glanced around. He could make out the shape of nearby trees and the ground, but no birds. 

Was he going to die?

Or suffer?

Again? This quickly.

Hadn’t he already done enough?

Mumbo stepped away from the tree he was at. His breath caught at the sudden movement across his vision and he stumbled away from the flying menace until it landed, and he could partially pick out what it was. On a rather low branch near his head it stopped. It ruffled its feathers and sang out a familiar melody again. _High-low-high._

“Grian?”

The parrot bobbed up and down and fluttered off in a direction. It paused when he didn’t immediately follow and circled him, heading towards that direction as he stood still watching it.

Everything was a danger out here he had learned. If Grian was a threat, at the very least he didn’t smell like rotting fish or saccharine pomegranates. He followed the parrot keeping his hands against the trees to keep from falling. “Grian?” Mumbo tried something else. Last time it hadn’t been Grian. “Is there something there? Hello?”

_High-low-high._

The bird was leading him to a sort of stone temple and that didn’t bode well. It was glowing with an ominous red-light and yet…Mumbo didn’t feel too fearful. That red light—was it the very same? It was.

It was redstone light. The bird stopped flying. It settled into a tree and cried out evenly. _High-low-high._ Mumbo stepped up to the temple entrance.

He spotted two redstone torches and immediately reached forward to grab one off the wall. As he did he was drawn to a dust covering the ground, like the substance coating the top of the torch. He brought the torch to it and it glowed—lighting the dust next to it and so on until it spread down the stairs leading further into the temple to a wall which opened.

Fascinating. Truly.

Mumbo followed the dust, keeping the redstone dust alight as he stepped through the opening in the wall to see familiar, yet alien technology. It was rudimentary—yet so strange and difficult. Were these logic gates—but made of this redstone material? He could study this all night. It’d certainly be safer in here than out there.

“Someone? Please? Help!” came a cry.

It sounded an awful lot like Grian. Mumbo weighed his options. He could help or see if he could at least try to, but Grian _had_ threatened him. His experience in the woods so far told him it was at least kind Grian spoke to him. Rather than being like the nasty wet creature that let out a morose gurgle before trying to decapitate him with a rusted pitchfork. If he left, that parrot outside could attack him. He didn’t know what powers Grian possessed, but birds seemed to follow his movements.

Mumbo cautiously crept over to where the voice had come from and held the torch up to survey what was going on. A stone slab of a different color and level of dirtiness was sticking up from the ground and was diagonally wedged over a hole. Part of the slab was too low into the hole and the other part was too high. He saw through a brief five-centimeter-wide gap between the stone slab and the stone floor a tuft of hair moving around and then the nail-less fingers scraping half-heartedly at the stone.

“Grian?” Mumbo asked.

The fingers retreated and he was briefly met with black eyes as Grian stood on his tiptoes from the hole he was trapped in. “Mumbo! Would you be so kind to help me out of here? I think it’s on a timer to kill me or try to.”

“What?” Mumbo questioned. He looked around the side of the slab and saw a broken wooden-stone mechanism and a trail of redstone attached to heaven knows what else. He surveyed it best he could to understand what it’s function might be, but it wasn’t the most obvious thing he’d ever laid eyes on. “How did you get in here?”

“Fell.”

Mumbo studied room and saw a lever in the down position. He tried moving it up. The slab didn’t move but let out a rickety groan. It had been improperly wedged in there. The lever didn’t budge when he tried to move it back down. “Someone remotely triggered this.”

“The man I was chasing! Mumbo, whatever you did has made it worse! I hear ticking!”

Despite Grian’s apparent threat to his life, Mumbo would feel awfully bad about letting him just die a horrible likely painful death as everything in these woods seemed to desire of everyone. He hung the redstone torch on a circular loop in the wall and turned to see how best to help Grian. “Can you push the stone slab up?” Mumbo asked.

“I’ve been trying!”

“Try again, I’ll help pull on it,” Mumbo ordered. He grabbed the stone slab and pulled and it hardly budged, but with Grian’s help pushing it, it moved a few centimeters more, but hardly enough to pull a person out. They had about 20 centimeters to work with. Grian tried desperately to pull himself out, but he wasn’t getting lucky.

“Mumbo!”

“Hang on,” Mumbo tried again to pull the slab up and braced his knee in the gap to nudge it five centimeters further. Grian stared at him and reached his hands out, Mumbo grabbed him under his fore arms and pulled and managed to get him partway out but got stuck at Grian’s stomach.

Grian flailed and tried to pull himself out but wasn’t able to get a firm grip on the smooth ground. He latched both his hands-on Mumbo’s ankles and gripped them desperately. Mumbo could smell gunpowder and smoke all of a sudden and apparently so could Grian. “It’s going to kill me! If it does, I’m dragging you with me.”

“Calm down and let go. I can’t pull you out with your hands on my ankles.” Grian reluctantly let go. Mumbo bent down. He pulled Grian out by his armpits, tugging the man out with his feet braced firmly against the slab. Mumbo fell back as he pulled Grian entirely free and with that the stone slab slammed into place and fire raged into the place Grian had just been stuck in. Grian rolled off of him and the two dusted themselves off and pulled themselves to their feet.

They stood there for a moment, Mumbo panting and Grian clutching his arms to himself. After a moment, Grian straightened. In the light of the redstone torches he was the same frizzy-haired short man with a red sweater frayed at the edges and a devilish glint in black eyes. “I should count my blessings. If it isn’t Mumbo Jumbo again. Who would have thought you’d be coming to my rescue?”

“Count yourself lucky,” Mumbo said and reached for the redstone torch he had hung up. Before he’d even moved his arm properly up, Grian’s cold ice-like hand was tight around his wrist. The black eyes stared into his. “Unhand me!” Mumbo shouted.

“Not quite, Mumbo.” Mumbo lowered his hand, but Grian’s fingers didn’t lighten quite yet. “Don’t fret. I’m not going to kill you, not after you just saved me. I owe you and before you go off waving that torch at me,” Grian released him and gestured dramatically pretending he was Mumbo with the torch. “I’d like to arrange a repayment deal.”

Mumbo fixed his sleeve where Grian had pushed it down and crossed his arms. Not out of any real confidence, but out of a discomfort with the way Grian’s eyes were peering up at him. “What kind of deal?”

“I owe you, Mumbo Jumbo,” Grian said boldly, walking past Mumbo to the way he had come in. “And I offer you a gracious repayment. A once in a lifetime opportunity.” Grian flashed him a toothy smile. Mumbo wasn’t impressed. Mumbo grabbed the redstone torch off the wall as Grian continued his prattling. “I offer you, my undying gratitude. Let’s shake on it.”

“No deal,” Mumbo said, and walked past Grian as he headed towards the exit.

“Mumbo!” Grian screeched. It rung painfully in Mumbo’s ears. “Don’t just leave! When someone saves someone around here—Ve—Promise Goblins expect equal return. A deal has to be made!”

“Or else?” Mumbo questioned, turning to Grian.

Grian shook his head, hands on his hips. “Or else we’re both screwed. They’ll come after us—the Promise Goblins!”

“Promise…Goblins?”

“Yes! So, do we have a deal!”

“No,” Mumbo said. “Hold on—since I saved your life, shouldn’t I determine what’s equal?” Mumbo questioned. He fixed the shorter man with a glare and the not-quite-man grumbled. He threw up a hand and gestured vaguely at Mumbo.

“If you insist—not like I have to agree.”

“You can’t kill me until you manage to save my life from another threat,” Grian raised an eyebrow and Mumbo held up a finger, “and you can’t cause that threat. Deal?”

“No deal!” Grian said. “Look here Mr. Jumbo—I don’t think you know who you’re messing with!” Grian said and he took a step towards Mumbo who didn’t immediately shove the redstone torch in his face, to give him credit. Although as Grian puffed out his chest, Mumbo nudged the redstone torch between them and let out a breath as Grian retreated. “I am very dangerous.”

“Color me pale and scared,” Mumbo said, and he couldn’t keep a tad bit of sarcasm of his voice. “Since I’m the one who saved you—who says the Promise Goblins will go after me? It’s you who’s not upholding the bargain.” He caught the slight twitch in Grian’s eye. He also noticed worryingly—Grian didn’t blink. He could narrow his eyes and squint, but he didn’t blink. Disturbing.

“They’ll go after us both,” Grian said in a rather impudent tone. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you. I can survive them, although I can’t say you will.” He turned away from Mumbo and took his time walking towards the exit.

Waiting.

Mumbo didn’t give in. Instead he watched as Grian almost made it to the mouth of the temple before he fell short, turned to Mumbo and fixed him with an expectant look. “Well?”

“You either agree to my deal, or there’s no deal to be had,” Mumbo said. He held the torch away from the both of them and held out his right hand. Grian’s eyes darted to his hand and then back to his face.

“You won’t like the deal once its fulfilled,” Grian warned. “I might want revenge,” he said. He didn’t take Mumbo’s hand, instead hovering his hand above it. “I might even scoop out your eyeballs.” Mumbo shivered. How Grian knew that was his exact fear unnerved him quite a bit, but he wasn’t going to show it in front of the gremlin.

“I’ll take the risk,” Mumbo said firmly.

“Last warning,” Grian sang, his fingers lightly tapping Mumbo’s palm. Mumbo moved his hand forward and took Grian’s, wincing at the bitter cold biting into his hand. Grian pressed his thumb against the back of Mumbo’s hand firmly and with a small smile he showed his sharp little teeth.

“You have your deal, Mumbo.” And they shook their hands once. Twice. Thrice.

Mumbo pulled his hand away quickly, as did Grian who retreated as Mumbo pulled the torch closer to himself once again. Grian fixed him with a wry look. “Allow me to walk you home?”

“And why’s that?” Mumbo said, exiting the stone temple ahead of Grian with the redstone torch in front of him.

“To hurry this along. I find this place full of threats,” Grian said. “One will cross your path likely on your way home. If I do away with it—our deal can be complete.”

“And you’ll kill me?”

“And I’ll kill you,” Grian confirmed. He side-eyed Mumbo as he caught up to him. “If that bothered you so much, you should have just accepted my gratitude. It was worth far more.”

“I doubt that,” Mumbo said and Grian snorted. Regardless of Mumbo’s wishes, he was trailed by the gremlin of a creature behind him. Worst yet, Grian whistled as he walked, and the parrot from earlier landed not on Grian this time, but Mumbo.

He nearly startled so bad he dropped the torch, but he managed to grasp it tighter as his heart leapt out of his mouth and onto the ground. His poor heart thudded there for minutes on end while Grian cackled, the parrot mimicking Grian’s laugh and Mumbo wished for his chest to return to a steady rhythm. “Oh man, if I had prevented ole Dolly from landing, maybe that could have counted, heh Mumbo?”

“Blimey,” Mumbo spat. He put his free hand to his chest and took a deep breath, feeling his heart starting to slow. The parrot on his shoulder continued its parody of Grian’s laughter and Mumbo shot it a nervous look. “I can’t say I’m a fan.”

Grian stuck out his tongue. He passed Mumbo and examined the trees ahead with a hand on his hip. “That’s a shame. Dolly likes you, clearly.”

“Dolly likes you,” the bird mimicked.

“I’m flattered,” Mumbo said unenthusiastically. “I don’t suppose you can tell me which way is the correct way back.”

“I cannot,” Grian confirmed.

“Lovely,” Mumbo walked past the man as he stared up at the trees. He seemed to be looking for something. It unnerved him and he was startled again when Dolly flew off his shoulder to head back to Grian’s who acknowledged the bird with a nod as he stared up. Mumbo slowed to look at Grian curiously. “What’s the matter?” Mumbo questioned.

Nothing. Grian continued staring up at the trees.

Mumbo waited, anxiety only worsening.

“The trees have eyes, you know,” Grian said. He lowered his gaze from the trees to Mumbo. He cocked up an eyebrow. “They always did.”

Mumbo glanced at the trees. They did not in fact have eyes. He decided it must be metaphorical and didn’t bother questioning Grian further. He just shook his head and continued onward, Grian’s whistling following him.

“You were serious about following me home,” Mumbo confirmed.

“Yup,” Grian said. “Although, if the thing in the trees is what threatens us, I can’t say I’ll be much help if it decides to kill us.” Mumbo cast a look over his shoulder to see Grian looking at the trees again. Mumbo refused to press. Grian could just be trying to unnerve him.

“Delightful,” Mumbo said. He held the torch out to maneuver over roots, rocks and brambles of all sorts. He could see no sign of his house nor hear the sound of the generator near it. No matter how much he squinted his eyes or waved the torch in each direction he was hopelessly lost. Grian following behind him seemed to have no trouble. “Don’t you sleep or have a home?”

“No and yes,” Grian said. “It’s been awhile since the last human came through the woods, so it’s been dreadfully boring.”

“How long has it been?” Mumbo asked. He glanced over his shoulder, but Grian wasn’t in sight. He tried not to panic. Calm down, the man’s probably messing with you. He waited for Grian’s response, and it came.

“Tsk tsk, Mumbo. Naughty _naughty_ , asking a question of me. Let’s have a bit of quid pro quo. You answer me a question, and I’ll give you something of worth.” Mumbo felt a hand on the back of his jacket, and he yelped as he was tugged backwards. It was Grian, his cold hand bleeding through the warmth of his jacket and into the skin of his back. “Do we have a deal?”

“I’m not making a deal, but I’ll play,” Mumbo said, and he waved the redstone torch at Grian, getting the gremlin to detach his fingers from Mumbo’s jacket and retreat a few steps back. Dolly the parrot had disappeared yet again. Grian crossed his arms.

“No questions then; only if you make a deal,” Grian insisted.

“No deals,” Mumbo said. He turned away from Grian and he kept his shoulders tensed, prepared for the gremlin to grab him again. He did not. Instead Grian continued following, silent now. Mumbo didn’t relax and he tried to balance two tasks: keeping his eyes peeled on the woods for signs of his house and keeping his ears focused on Grian in case that deal didn’t hold true and the gremlin attacked.

The silence proved unbearable for Grian. Rather than trail behind Mumbo any longer, he caught up to Mumbo, taking two steps for Mumbo’s one, but all the same walking in sync with him. He cast a long hard look at the mustached man and then hmphed. “Fine, no deal then—but three questions. If you answer mine, I’ll answer three of yours. No handshakes or verbal agreements. Just play along.” Mumbo glanced at him and found Grian looking ahead at the woods. “Answer me this, Mumbo. What do you have—whether it’s in the cabin or on you—that is most dear to you?”

Mumbo thought about the question. Dear to him? Was it his phone? No, not likely. He’d been without it this entire time practically. His computer? Well, it was hardly working. His truck? That ranked pretty far up there—in fact, right now, it was Mumbo’s most important thing. Mumbo didn’t want to let Grian know that, but what else was dear to him?

“It has to be a material object,” Grian clarified. “I don’t want to hear about your life or soul or mind or voice. Someone else tried that.”

“Hm,” Mumbo said. “I have no reason to answer,” Mumbo thought aloud. Grian chuckled. He cast a sideways look up at Mumbo and with that small now infuriating smile.

“Mayhap not,” Grian said. “Though you seem ill prepared for what’s in these woods, Mumbo Jumbo. As one of the longest living residents of them, I have more information than most. You can ask those details of me—if you give me one teensy-weensy little answer.”

Mumbo tightened his grip on the redstone torch. “What will you do with the information I give you—specifically?”

“Mine first, Mumbo Jumbo.”

Cost-benefit analysis. Mumbo chewed on the inside of his mouth, barely paying attention to his surroundings as he trudged forward. He stepped over roots and rocks absently. Grian was going to sabotage his truck if he told the truth—but what if he lied. What was the cost then? Was it those promise goblins? Who said they were real?

“I wouldn’t lie, Mumbo Jumbo,” Grian said with a slight purr to his voice.

Could Grian mind read, or was it written on his face right now? He shot a glance at Grian, but the black eyes betrayed nothing. Mumbo didn’t need the information, not that badly. He doubted Grian would be much help. Would a little bit of information really be all that much help compared his truck? If he couldn’t leave—then he was just as screwed. Mumbo grit his teeth and shook his head.

“Not answering,” Mumbo said. He looked resolutely ahead and finally came across a familiar sight: the worn-down picnic tables. He used them to judge where he was and walked past the mostly broken one to the one that had formerly held the torch. He centered himself using it, turning west to the direction his house must be in. Beside him Grian’s smile was so wide and menacing the moonbeams were bouncing off of it. Mumbo tried very hard not to notice that.

“You play a tricky game, Mr. Jumbo,” Grian murmured. “A very tricky game indeed.”

Mumbo risked a look at Grian and realized with a start he was nearly standing on Mumbo’ s toes. Mumbo flung the redstone torch towards him and Grian lightly danced backwards on his feet, spry and unbothered. He narrowed his eyes at Mumbo, his smile still wide.

“Stay back,” Mumbo warned.

Grian only continued the damned smile before he let it slide to a closed lip one. “Good morning, Mumbo Jumbo. Until next time,” Grian chirped and he backed into the woods, the parrot—maybe Dolly—fluttering down from a nearby tree and giving out a signature melody of _high-low-high_ before it vanished into the darkness of the woods with Grian.

To say he was frazzled would be an understatement. Mumbo made quick haste towards his home, nearly running at the snap of a tree branch or the call of an owl. He bruised his elbows on trees and his ankles on roots and bushes as he smashed through them, unrelentingly desperate to be free of the woods. When the darkness felt like it was swallowing him, he burst into the familiar clearing of his cabin.

The redstone torch nearly blinded him as he shoved his arms over his face as he fell face first onto the sacred and more importantly _safe_ turf that was his home. His truck was in the drive, looking like a beacon of hope after what he experienced today. Mumbo moved his arms and the torch from his face, using his free hand to rub at his eyes. As his hand neared his face it smelt strangely of kava, almonds and blood. He inspected his hand but found no cuts or bruises nor anything smeared on it.

It smelt as strongly as if someone had sprayed cologne on him and Mumbo realized with a start, he had shaken Grian’s hand with this hand. He hadn’t really been paying attention to Grian’s smell, but if this is what he had smelt like... Mumbo shook his head and used his jacket sleeve to wipe at his eyes.

He was leaving. Now.

Mumbo went to his truck and reached in his pocket for his keys.

They were there. He pulled them free and stared at them for a moment, hardly believing they were in his hand. Out of all the things he lost—the flashlight, his wallet—but not the damned keys. He was grateful and started his truck, expecting some horrible fate. Maybe it wouldn’t start. The truck would explode or sputter and die.

But it did start.

The only thing different, was the radio. Mumbo didn’t realize it at first, too overwhelmed with joy and relief as he locked the doors to his truck and buckled his seatbelt. The radio was playing static intermittent with an occasional distant voice. Mumbo didn’t immediately pull the truck out, despite common sense screaming at him too, but instead listened for a moment to the radio.

_Charlie_. Static. Beep. _Alpha._ Static. Beep. _November._ Static. Beep.

Mumbo turned off the radio. He shook his head clear of his thoughts. He wasn’t listening to that. He backed out of the drive and drove down the dirt road to the paved road. The redstone torch in the cupholder beside him was the only reassuring light he knew. It was pitch black. His headlights made two streaks of color and shape.

Mumbo neared the gas station and he considered stopping. Their lights were on and the open sign still on. He didn’t stop. Mumbo was leaving. He was getting out of here. He had to leave.

The gas station passed until it was a blip in his rearview mirror. Mumbo breathed a sigh of relief.

The radio turned back on.

_November._ Static. Beep. _Oscar_. Static. Beep _. Sierra_. Static _._ Beep. _Tango._

Mumbo turned the radio off again, his eyes going to the road. His hands were tense on the steering wheel. He saw a light in the distance and Mumbo couldn’t help himself. He pressed down on the accelerator. A street light. A sign of civilization.

But it wasn’t a street light.

The light was growing. _Growing_. Harsher. _Brighter._

The radio flipped on.

_STOP._ Screamed someone on the radio.

Mumbo hit the brakes, but it was too late. The light was overtaking him. He threw open the truck door, unclicked his seatbelt, and grabbed the redstone torch. His eyes were wide with horror. He flung himself out the open truck door and blacked out as he hit the ruthless pavement below.

…

Mumbo awoke with the sun high in the sky and mercilessly roasting his sticky and mud caked body. He covered his eyes with a groan and sat up. His head was pounding and when he delicately moved his hand to the side of his head, it came away bloody. His left arm he landed on was burning with pain and the jacket was tore away by road burn, the flesh exposed scraped and bloody. Miraculously, nothing seemed broken or too bloody. He was scraped up and likely concussed, but he’d live.

And his truck. Mumbo looked down the road and saw his truck. The remains of it. Two tires. A seat. And a few other pieces too mangled to really identify here and there. There were marks leading off the side of the road and into a ditch then disappearing into the dark woods. He traced the visible path the rest of his truck might have taken and then blinked.

Mumbo tore his eyes from the sight and then to the speed bump further down the road. One he remembered driving over when he came here. It looked innocuous. Unassuming. He grabbed the redstone torch with his good hand and pushed himself onto his hands and knees, wincing as aches and bruises unseen became resoundingly felt.

Mumbo stood up. He took a step towards the speed bump, but then thought better. He picked up a piece of what might have been exhaust pipe and threw it over the speed bump.

It disintegrated the moment it passed over the bump.

Mumbo couldn’t help it. He laughed. It was a concussion, that was it. He staggered back down the road to where the cabin would be waiting for him.

He wasn’t leaving that easy. He wasn’t contacting anyone that easy. That was for damned sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't write two cursed AN's in a row. Thanks for comments! Thanks for waiting. I don't like writing AN's, because what I write and who I am aren't same. Assume I am a collection of ferrets running across a keyboard.


	3. Ghostly Roommates and Unknown Neighbours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also time to add nother hermit. spin wheel. who is it. it's, it's my favorite bed boy. bed boy. bed boy. bed boy. bed boi. bed boi. bedddddddddd. dunno how other fans right Bdouble00s name. i always write it bdub/bdubs. i like s on end. sssssssssssssssss

_Chapter 3: Ghostly Roommates and Unknown Neighbours_

_“The Doctor’s Tip #3: Keep the redstone torch near you at all times; your house isn’t the safety zone you think it is.”_

Mumbo winced at the sound of the bell above the door as he entered the gas station. Today there wasn’t the sunglasses wearing “Ren Diggity Dog” at the counter, but a blonde with her hair in a ponytail and a strangely…disconcerting appearance. She wasn’t wearing anything unusual, not that he could see, but it was like the longer he stared at her the more her image changed. No details of it did, but it was as if it…vibrated or flickered?

Or maybe that was the concussion. Her eyes flicked to him as he made his way over to the counter. Her name tag, which was about the clearest thing about her, read “False.”

“Can I help you?”

Mumbo didn’t know if she could. “Could I use the restroom?”

“You’ll have to buy something first.”

Mumbo wasn’t sure he had any money. She sighed and cocked her head, studying Mumbo’s face. She reached under the counter and pulled out a familiar leather wallet. She flipped it open and pulled out an ID card. She held it up and from the sheen and the smell it was still a slightly damp, but for sure his ID card. “This you?”

“That’d be me.”

“Ren found it while he was walking around on break,” she said stiffly. She put the ID back in the wallet and slid it across the counter. “I expect you’ll want it back.”

“You’d expect right. Thank-you to him and you,” he said and reached up and took his wallet. One upside, at the least. It smelled of the river and when he checked the contents, most of it was present, except a few gift cards strangely, but his money was present, albeit soaked with river water.

“Not a problem,” she said. Mumbo averted his eyes, because whatever was going on with how she looked, she was hard to stare at for too long. She watched him as he maneuvered the shelves. He settled on an off-brand first-aid kit, a bottle of water and a bag of crisps and tossed it on the counter with a sigh.

He almost wished she asked him what he’d been through, but as with the last store employee, she seemed highly disinterested in knowing anything about him. Mumbo didn’t press it.

“You’re going to make me dry out these dollar bills—aren’t you?”

“They’re still good money, aren’t they?”

“They’re wet.”

Mumbo shrugged. She took them and gave him back his change—strangely, she avoided giving him any nickels—and pinned the dollar bills under a can of soda sitting near the cigarette display where a small fan was oscillating. “If they take more than a day to dry out, you’re banned from the shop.”

“Noted,” Mumbo said, and he took his purchases and made for the restroom. He patched himself up the best he could in there and saved cleaning out the scrape on the side of his head for last. It wasn’t serious, just likely from the road, but it stung a lot. It didn’t feel deep and the bleeding had already slowed. Just a bad scrape. Nothing more. It relieved him.

Mumbo had a funny feeling he wouldn’t be getting to the hospital, and even if she had given him nickels, he wasn’t sure 911 was an option. After all, the reason of why he was here and paying with cash of all things…well. He was sure police, even the American ones, would be far less dangerous than this place, but still. Was he sure 911 would work on these phones? Mayhap it’d just never connect. The nearest police force he’d been assured by Con Corp was a sheriff. Too small a town for much else.

That no longer seemed as good news as he hoped.

Mumbo didn’t dawdle any further. He shoved his wallet and the remains of the first-aid kit into his jeans and the half-drank water bottle as well and munched on the crisps. The sound of his crunching and the blazing feeling of the rising sun the only two real signs of his existence in these terrible woods.

Hopefully, he hadn’t locked the cabin—as his set of keys were still in the truck. Its fate was unknown, but he doubted he’d get the keys back as easily as he got his wallet, or if he did get them back that easy…. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. A cursory look around didn’t reveal obvious cameras or eyes watching him. 

It was strange that his wallet returned to him not a few hours later

Was Ren in those woods when he was?

Had he been out for more than an hour or two?

Mumbo shook it off. He’d jot that down, but more importantly he’d need to get back to the cabin, shower, and sleep. The crisps in one hand and the redstone torch in the other—he must have been quite a sight if anyone was watching him.

…

The cabin was not in ruins or sheltering horrible terror as he approached it, his feet and legs aching with the mixed pain they had been through. He approached the door to the cabin and found, strangely, and quite conveniently, a key.

In the lock.

The remains of a key ring, _his key ring,_ still attached.

The small dog charm he had on it that had been worn away for years was still there, a new rip in the old rubber.

Mumbo swallowed, and he looked around himself for an explanation. There was none. He shoved the empty bag of crisps in the pocket of his jeans and took a step back. He held his redstone torch as far out in front of him as he could manage. He opened the door.

Nothing jumped out. Nothing spooked him.

Not right away. Not yet.

Mumbo entered the cabin and pocketed the key. It looked as he had left it. Boxes still scattered across the room, some all the way unpacked, some with a few items he was unsure of where to put. The computer sat off in the corner. The kitchen light left on, because he had been worried, he might return at night to a dark house. The blankets piled on the couch. The…

Mumbo’s eyes darted to the couch.

There were not blankets piled on the couch. But the shape of a man. Semi-humanoid. Mumbo didn’t yell out to give himself credit, but he did gesture wildly with the redstone torch at the humanoid. It startled the humanoid which darted up.

It looked like a man but was a shadow of one. It was transparent, features and colors dimmed like a painting of a man seen through smoke. Two wide eyes stared at him and to Mumbo’s surprise, it spoke. “Hey now, don’t go swinging that at me. I don’t want to die a second time. Not by that stuff again.”

“What?” Mumbo questioned.

The shadowy man? —The shadow-man raised his hands in front of him slowly, a pacifying gesture. “I assume you’ve seen this place is kind of crazy. My name’s Bdubs—and you are?”

“Mumbo,” Mumbo said, he lowered the redstone torch partially.

“Great!” Bdubs said. “Fantastic. So, you’re semi-up to date on the basics. Cool. That’s—” Bdubs cut himself off. “Okay, okay. Bdubs…focus.”

“What are you?” Mumbo asked, and he drew closer. Bdubs took a step back.

“I’m a…well I’m a ghost. I kind of died here. I’m pretty sure a lot of people died here, but I kind of died pretty brutally,” Bdubs said with a shrug. “That’s not the point. Point is—least when I was alive. This place seemed a lot safer. This cabin. Now that I’m dead—it hasn’t stopped things from trying to eat me, and I like to hide out here. I was just waiting for Mr. Fan’s cleaning crew to leave.”

Mumbo was unsure what to think or even if he should trust this shadowy man in front of him. He didn’t look wholesome or good-hearted. He looked like a shadowy monster that turned out to be evil. Maybe Bdubs was a good ghost, but he certainly didn’t look friendly.

“How’d you die?” Mumbo questioned.

Bdubs gave him a cross look. The smoke swirling around his transparent form shifted as he shrugged. He looked to the side of Mumbo and crossed his arms. “Well, kind of rude to start our acquaintance-ship off that way, but if you must know,” Bdubs started. He glanced at Mumbo and then gestured at the redstone torch. “That killed me. Or someone pushing me into something powered by that thingy did.”

“Someone pushing you?” Mumbo asked.

Bdubs shook his head. “I’m not getting into that. Point is—how’d you like a roommate? The last person that lived here—well. I never got to explain myself—mostly because they died before I managed to get back over here.”

“Who were they?” Mumbo asked.

“How should I heckin’ know?” Bdubs said.

They were at a standoff. Mumbo stood a few feet away from Bdubs, unsure. He kept the redstone torch between them and stared at the smoky visage of a person with a scrutiny. Other people had been here before? That wasn’t surprising, but he hadn’t thought the cabin had been inhabited for a while.

“What year did you come here?”

“I came here in 2017, died a month or two after,” Bdubs said. “Trust me, this place gets freaky real fast. I assume you’ve been here a week?”  
  


“A few days.”

Bdubs nodded. He gestured to the redstone torch. “Me and that thing never got along. I avoided using it. Funny, none of the things repelled by it succeeded in killing me.” He paused and crossed his arms. “Funny…. Funny how it works out for some of us,” Bdubs said bitterly.

Mumbo decided that whatever Bdubs was, redstone would likely either make him enraged or scare him off. If it was the former, he wasn’t sure he wanted to anger a monster in his only real safe haven. He reluctantly set the torch down entirely and eyed the ghost. “And what would being roommates entail?”

Bdubs perked up. His eyes darted to Mumbo. “Oh, you won’t regret this. When I can manage to move objects—I’ll be a great cleaner! Just extra help. I can’t move things yet, but when I figure out how to—”

“What will you do here? Why do you want to be in the cabin?”

“Hello! Things out there want to kill me! Even when I’m like this!” Bdubs gestured down at himself. “And what do I want? Not much. If you could turn on the telly or open up a book, I might be able to blow on it hard enough to turn the pages. It gets really boring being dead, you know?”

Mumbo didn’t know, but he surmised it would be boring. He nodded reluctantly. “I guess.”

“Oh, I can also be helpful! I might know some things you don’t!”

“Like?” Mumbo asked. He decided for the moment Bdubs was not as dangerous as what he had just went through and walked past the ghost to his room to quickly shuck off his ruined clothes and look for shorts and a t-shirt. It occurred to him later to be modest, but he saw the ghost had averted his eyes.

“I do know there’s something in the cellar. I was too afraid to go down there often, but sometimes I heard noises coming from it after the delivery truck came. It didn’t sound like something scary—you know, look what’s in the woods level scary. Still spooked me enough I didn’t go down there and check, but it was more like someone was down there.”

“Anything happen to the food you stored down there?” Mumbo questioned.

“Yeah! There always seemed to be less. They—I assume it was a person—always took the dry stuff.”

“Weird. Who else is out there?” Mumbo asked. It occurred to him as he managed to get into a clean t-shirt and shorts possibly Grian would steal the food, but he didn’t seem like he ate human food. Something about those teeth didn’t make him think he would be satisfied with a good bowl of raisin bran.

Mumbo grabbed a washcloth and ran it under the tap of his bathroom faucet and began cleaning the mud off his legs as Bdubs continued ranting semi-incoherently from the other room. “It’s so rude of someone to steal food! They could have asked! I don’t think it was an animal. They always redid the latch and the lock! They always relocked it somehow. And it looked to have been moved so I don’t think they left and entered through same way in the cellars!”

Mumbo just hummed in thought. This Bdubs ghost man did change some of his mental agenda where he was still weighing heading to sleep. He most definitely did not feel like sleeping now a very talkative ghost was in his house. For starters, he didn’t know yet if the ghost would kill him. The cellar could be a good starting point, although with how weird this place was turning out to be, he wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t someone relocking it, but that maybe there was another entrance to the cellar.

“Fancy going to check the cellar out with me?” Mumbo asked.

“No, thanks!” Bdubs said very firmly. Mumbo glanced over at the ghost and spotted him scanning book titles from the few Mumbo had pulled from an office box. “Would you mind leaving this book on computers out and open?”

“Sure,” Mumbo agreed. He opened the book to the first page, and he watched Bdubs attempt to interact it. With two hands the ghost managed with what looked like a great deal of effort to turn the page. Unless Bdubs was putting on a show, Mumbo was starting to feel a lot better about turning his back on the ghost several times. He left the ghost to attempt to read a book and found the cellar key he had thrown in a cabinet drawer.

It was still there, as large and old-looking as ever.

Mumbo sighed. He grabbed the redstone torch and headed outside.

The cellar lock wasn’t that hard to open. His hand fumbled a few times and he nearly tripped on his way in. The fatigue of the night’s events was settling into his bones and he had to squint even with the redstone torch to see around the cellar.

It was not a large and imposing sight. It was older, but not ancient. It was a small room, with neat shelves. Dusty but not full of creepy-crawlies and disturbing sights. Mumbo found a chain to the light and tugged on it.

A light above flicked on. It was not an ominous bare bulb, but a circular light that did a great deal of good emitting light around the room. The cellar had wood paneling and a cold stone floor that even in his tennis shoes he could feel bleeding into his feet. He inspected the three sets of shelves and the wooden post at the far corner of the room that didn’t seem to belong.

It looked to have been pulled up a while ago from somewhere outside. It had a note nailed to it. It looked to have been ripped away at some point and then hastily nailed back by someone with a weaker arm.

Mumbo read it.

…

**Table of Contents:**

Tips: (3-9)

Monsters: (10-17)

Redstone: (18-20)

List of Past Residents: (21-22)

Why are you here?: (23)

Why did I write this?: (24)

How do you escape?: (25)

Accepting your demise: (26)

On Con Corp: (27)

Who am I? (28-30)

…

What? Mumbo didn’t understand—this was obviously what it said. A table of contents. But to what? It was about this place. It had to be. Had someone had written a book on this place? Or rather a pamphlet, given the small number of pages. Why? Did they know there were going to be others after them? How? It didn’t bode well the pages of past residents were two pages long.

There was a note in pencil on the bottom corner of the paper he had to squint to read. It was written in scrappy handwriting practically ground into the paper with h and r’s that more resembled n’s.

**“Check behind the panel behind this. I put the rest there.”**

_-I._

Mumbo did. He moved the post from the panel it leaned on and ran his fingertips along the edge of the wooden panel. They caught on a loose edge and he pulled it free. He set the panel to the side. A small metal box was inside—an old toolbox without a handle—and he pulled it free. He flipped the lid open.

A few papers were inside. They had evidence of being ripped from a book of similar binding. Upon a closer comparison, he could see the paper—a thick, but a small sized sheet—was similar to the paper on the post.

They were as follows:

**Page 3:**

Tip 1: _“Never. Ever. Share your name while you’re here. Names have power—and none of its good.”_

Tip 2: _“If it sounds too good to be true—it’s probably already planning to kill you.”_

Tip 3: _“Keep the redstone torch near you at all times; your house isn’t the safety zone you think it is.”_

Tip 4: _“Don’t try to leave the obvious way. If it was that easy to leave—who would stay?”_

**_June 2016:_ **

**Look. Find me. I’ve seen 3 cycles of people here. I gathered some of the notes here. Whoever the Doctor is, he’s a strange fellow. I wouldn’t trust the notes but read them and try to consider their other meaning. I’m in the southern part of the woods. There’s an old collection of train carts and a chasm. We might run into each other if you live long enough—I steal food out of this cellar. If you’re kind, portion aside as much of the dry foods you’re willing to part with and one or two fresh ones**

**-Iskall.**

**-**

**Page 4:**

Tip 5: _“Trust only the you that came in here—not the you you’re becoming or the others around you.”_

Tip 6: _“Trust these tips only as far as you can throw them.”_

Tip 7: _“If it looks human, if it sounds human, and if it acts human—it’s more dangerous than you know.”_

Tip 8: _“You will meet Ren. Meet him any night but the full moon.”_

Tip 9: _“If you kill something, prepare to triple tap it. It won’t die the first time. It will die the second. And the third time prepare for the undead.”_

**September 2016:**

**Tip 9 is true but ignore Tip 5 and 7. “The Doctor’s” high on his bullshit about it. Trust me, most of us are still human. Just some of us are more shittier versions of humans. I have yet to meet Ren, but between you and me, I’m pretty sure that means he’s a werewolf.**

**-Iskall.**

…

**Page 10**

**Creature Catalogue:**

**_(Key to understanding notes) - Iskall_ **

**Threat Levels:**

  * **Butterfly:** Won’t bother or hurt you
  * **Fly:** Bothersome, but not dangerous
  * **Bee:** Potentially dangerous, but can be avoided— **not likely to approach you**
  * **Wasp:** Will approach you, is vaguely dangerous
  * **Spider:** Very creepy, potentially dangerous, best avoided, but survivable
  * **Centipede:** Kill it before it kills you—can be harmed. Dangerous
  * **Scorpion:** Very hard to kill—very dangerous
  * **Roach:** Practically unkillable, invasive, get rid of it



**The Doctor’s Notes about this Classification System**

**“** I was told the wildlife here were kind of pesky. I thought they meant bugs, but no—they meant those things in the woods. But I’m an adaptable man—freaky things or no—I can classify them by how they compare to bugs. “

…

**Page 12:**

**Betweeners:**

**Threat Level:** Fly/Noob

**Human Status:** 50/50

**Redstone Effectiveness:** Deterrent

**Notable Characteristics:** Shapeshifting, incorporeal to living, died by redstone

Former humans who were killed by redstone—leaves ghost-like creature behind. Pretty much everything can kill them.

**Vexes (aka Promise Goblins)**

**Threat Level:** Bee/Impossible

**Human Status:** N/A

**Redstone Effectiveness:** Deterrent

**Notable Characteristics:** None

If you ever see them you’ve fucked up. They’re glowing white lights that hound you if you don’t keep your bargains. First rule of the woods—never give your name—or they’ll take it when you fuck up—redstone be damned. They will eventually kill you—but how? I don’t know. I’ve only ever seen someone…vanish by them before.

**Nameless:**

**TL:** Spider/Hard

**HS:** Monster

**RE:** Terminate

If you ever lose your name to a Vex, because you didn’t keep your promise—you’ll become one. They’re the manta-ray looking things that swoop down at night, there’s also water and cave forms. The cave ones hug the walls of stone and attack you by reaching out and the water ones lurk in murky water and wait for you to fall in. They want blood but won’t kill you immediately. They like to draw out your death.

**Drowned:**

**TL:** Wasp/Medium

**HS:** Alien

**RE:** Deterrent

**Notable Characteristics:** What is that man doing out in the lake with snorkeling gear on—oh—that is a part of his body—oh my word that’s disturbing?

It’s a zombie, but it’s underwater. They smell just as bad.

**Undead:**

**TL:** Wasp/Medium

**HS:** 50/50

**RE:** Ineffective

**Notable Characteristics:** An actual torch takes these fuckers out.

Skeletons and zombies. They’ve rolled out of their burial place and they wander, entrapping any that stumble into their broken jaws and claws and sufficiently biting or clawing at them until their opponent dies. There’s not much brain to them.

**Dog?:**

**TL:** Wasp/Very Hard

**HS:** Monster

**RE:** Ineffective

**Notable Characteristics:** It has 4 legs, a tail, a snout, 2 ears—is it a dog?

In the loosest definition. It’s a dog?

**Creepers:**

**TL:** Wasp/Easy

**HS:** Monster

**RE:** Terminate

**Notable Characteristics:** Grass cats. They are vertical cats

Despite common belief—they do not explode. They cause you to turn inside out…by exploding you.

…

Mumbo had to reread the information a few times. He had settled against the wall and eventually slunk down to sit down. The year was 2019. If “Iskall” had seen three cycles—than how many had been here? At least four then?

“You’ve been down here awhile,” a voice said.

Mumbo startled. He looked up. Bdubs was hovering, standing near the entrance to the stairs. “I was making sure you didn’t die.”

“Thanks,” Mumbo muttered. He stood up, papers in one hand. “I found something,” he said. Then, Mumbo reconsidered. Should he tell Bdubs? He could be dangerous. He could get rid of the papers. Too late now.

“What’d you find?” Bdubs questioned.

“First, you said you came here in…”

“2017,” Bdubs confirmed.

Mumbo thought about that. Iskall’s message left on the note said he had seen three cycles as of 2016—so there must have been at least five, six people counting him who had resided here.

And the other five? Were they all still alive?

Was Iskall still alive?

He flipped through the papers back to the monsters. He nearly jumped out of his skin as Bdubs hovered over him, reading over his shoulder. He was halfway in the wall. “These are notes on the monsters out there!”

“I can see that,” Mumbo said. “Who wrote them and why? Why are there pages missing?”

“Maybe this…Isk…Iskall? fellow has them,” Bdubs said nearly leaning into Mumbo to read. Mumbo set some of the papers he wasn’t looking at to the side so Bdubs wouldn’t accidentally float into him. The shadowy ghost floated over to them and settled into a sitting position beside Mumbo to read.

“Maybe. I wish I had a compass. I think my phone has one on it.”

“Hopefully it works,” Bdubs said. “I lost my phone while running from one of those cats—creepers. There’s a lot of cats in the woods. Some normal. I petted a few.”

Mumbo side-eyed him. “Cats?”

“Out of all the things I saw, they were the least strange,” Bdubs said. “The normal cats purr and headbutt.”

“What did you see?” Mumbo asked, setting the papers aside and turning to Bdubs.

Bdubs shrugged. He was highly interested in the pages. “Zombies, zombies in the water, flying manatees—or Nameless—that weird-eyed fellow.” Mumbo nodded. Grian. “I didn’t see any dogs. I’d have loved to see a good dog,” Bdubs scanned over the notes. “I wonder if someone kept an active record of people. Especially if this was written before whenever Iskall wrote on it.”

“Maybe the book’s magical,” Mumbo said. “Although, despite all this. I don’t believe in magic.”

“Really? I do,” Bdubs said. “Am I a Betweener?”

“Are you?” Mumbo asked.

“I think so,” Bdubs said. “I did die to redstone.”

Mumbo reached over Bdubs and grabbed the Table of Contents. “I’d love to see the page on redstone.”

“I want to see the page on whoever wrote this,” Bdubs said. “I wonder if someone ripped the journal up—and if so why? Why not just destroy all the pages?”

Mumbo thought on it. “If the writer did it, maybe it’s because they were worried someone would discover the whole journal.”

“Who?”

“Con Corp?” Mumbo suggested.

Bdubs went quiet. He crossed his arms across his chest. “You might be right. They’re pretty cruel throwing…throwing us all in this place. Why? What did we do to deserve this fate?”

“Is it purgatory, like the show Lost?”

“I don’t think so,” Mumbo said. “I did agree to be here.”

“As did I,” Bdubs said. “I…I ended up in a lot of debt and I just—I just needed to escape. They offered me a deal. I stay here for five years and they’d pay off all my debt.” Mumbo watched the ghost trace dust patterns on the floor. His finger dipped in and out of the floor. “What about you?”

Mumbo rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. “Something similar.” He took in a shaky breath. “A lot of trouble—needed an escape.”

“So, they look for desperate folks like us and send us here to die? For fun? Sacrifice to eldritch beings or gods?” Bdubs pondered.

“None of that,” Mumbo dismissed. “Con Corp is a company. They have stocks. This has to be…some sort of science experiment—maybe a social experiment.”

“I’m dead,” Bdubs said glancing over at Mumbo.

“You could not exist. You could be some sort of advanced AI or a hallucination,” Mumbo offered.

“Do I exist?” Bdubs questioned. They sat there for a moment, Mumbo’s eyes starting to close from exhaustion catching up with him. “I like my theory better,” Bdubs decided.

“We aren’t going to answer those questions sitting here,” Mumbo said. He reluctantly pulled himself up and swayed. Bdubs reached his hands out as if to catch them, but with an icy cold—they sunk into Mumbo which worked just as well. He felt like he’d been splashed with water.

“Oh, sorry. Tried to help,” Bdubs said hastily, withdrawing his hands. “What now then? You look a little pale.”

Mumbo nodded absently. He felt unwell. He could practically feel the color drained from his face. “I’ll—I think I need to sleep. You won’t kill me while I’m asleep or suck my soul out?”

Bdubs shook his head. “Hey! I’m just trying to survive too. I’m not going to kill you or go all dementor.”

Mumbo sighed. He’d just have to trust him.

…

Mumbo took a quick shower and fell into the cot in the cabin without much fanfare. He’d plugged in the telly and debated with Bdubs over the volume of the random action movie they chose. Mumbo being the only one with a functioning grasp on corporeal objects won, but he did put subtitles on.

He thought it’d take longer to fall asleep out of fear of the ghost in his house, but after a few moments with his eyes closed, he drifted asleep.

In his dreams, he ran. Feet pounding against uncertain ground that felt like it was sucking him down one moment, pushing at his feet the next. Sometimes he was running downhill, his heels burning in the back of his worn shoes. Sometimes he was running at an incline so steep he nearly felt like he was on all fours.

At first, he felt fear as he ran. As if he was being pursued. Hands reached out from the trees, from between their roots. Bloody hands whispering and clawing and gripping at his clothes.

They whispered things he could not hear over his heartbeat.

They whispered too softly to tell an individual voice apart.

They whispered as if their vocal cords were strangled.

The trees had eyes. In the trunks. In the branches. Some human. Some almost. Some far from it. And two eyes like Grian’s yet more ancient. Dark voids wreathed in branches like staring into an empty forest.

The whispering grew louder. As did his heartbeat. The ground felt sticky. His shoes nearly coming off with each footfall and when he glanced down it was a deep red but as he stared, he found something calming in staring into the red and he slowed his running down. It felt like it called to him. Why was he running to begin with?

The whispering quieted as he bent down and dipped his fingers into the ground, as Bdubs had done when trying to draw shapes in the dust and they came back covered in a red dust. As he knelt, he half expected to feel his jeans soak into a substance like mud.

Like blood.

But when his fingers came away, they were coated in glittering red dust, staining his hands, his jeans. He knelt on the ground, transfixed by the red. It consumed him. He felt as if he was being drawn into it. Merged with it. Like it was soaking into his skin and paralyzing him.

Stinging and biting, wasp bites and bee stings against his fingers and Mumbo’s hand jerked.

His attention was broken by a shrill whistle as if someone was calling a dog.

A warbling high voice sunk into a low note and back into a high note, he heard a giggle and realized he hadn’t been running from something but chasing something hard to catch. That hard to catch thing was not what was looking at him now, its head tilted to the side and its eyes glittering black.

“You should wake up, Mumbo Jumbo.”

“Wake up, Mumbo.”

“Wake up.”

Mumbo jolted awake, sweat dripping down his forehead and into his brows. His vision was blurry from sleep, eye-boogers still trapped in the corners of his eyes. He raised a hand to wipe away the sweat still dripping down his face.

It felt like he had dust on his fingertips. When he glanced down at his hands—the red from the dreams stained them still.

He jolted out of the bed, nearly tripping on the sheets tangled around his legs. He stumbled into the wall of his bedroom as he made his way to the bathroom. He dipped his hands under the faucet and scrubbed fastidiously and splashed his face with water. Mumbo cleaned his eyes and blinked until his vision was clear.

When it was there was nothing on his face or hands and not a trace of anything red in the sink or under his nails.

It had just been a dream.

Mumbo sighed and he gripped the sink on either side and looked down into the drain, blinking slowly. It must be morning. He had gone to sleep likely early in the day, but with how exhausted he had been he must have slept a good long while.

Light poured in from the visible window between the blinds and curtain he could see from the corner of his eyes. Despite his apparent long rest, he felt no more rested. Mumbo rested his head against the mirror, closing his eyes.

A headache was forming in the front of his head and he was reminded he hadn’t really eaten a full proper meal for at least a full day now. The thirst hit him then too and he bent his down and drank straight from the faucet to sate it.

With what he was dealing with he should make sure to be keeping up on basic health concerns.

Mumbo left the bathroom in search of food and glanced out another window and saw darkness only broken by what looked like a headlight. Wait a moment. What was the blinding light he had seen earlier?

He paused and braced himself. With a deep breath he turned to the window where the blinding light was coming in from. Mumbo grabbed the redstone torch off his bedside table where he had propped it up and glanced around for Bdubs.

No sight of him.

Outside his front door he could hear a loud creaking and groaning and the sound of crackling electricity. Mumbo crept over to the window and peaked out to see a terrifying sight.

A tall thing with what looked to be lights wired to its torso. The proportions were those of a stickman, long and thin and uncanny. Its body was a mix of wires, old parts of what looked to be a toaster, a computer, a car and machinery he couldn’t identify. Propped up on strong wires were lights extending from various parts of its body—one light he even recognized because it was still attached to the frame. It was the taillight of his car.

Between the mesmerizing mix of wires and machinery melded in impossible ways was an eerily glowing red that was familiar to him. The same as his redstone torch, the same as the redstone dust. It pulsed within the creature as its head swung from the front door to him where he peeked through the blinds.

It had a face and head like an electrical outlet. Two long empty eyes and a black mouth left gaping open.

It made no noise. It just moved to him, loose wires swinging off it and crackling with electricity. It hefted a pole with what Mumbo thought was a lamp affixed to the end, until he saw the sharp prongs.

Oh, no. No. Mumbo stumbled away from his window just in time for the machinery to swing the pole through his window with a janky aim. It missed where he was standing by a meter, but it succeeded at breaking his window open and for Mumbo to feel much more afraid.

He swung his redstone torch towards the machinery. It pulled the pole back out the window. Mumbo took a deep breath.

Only to reach a three-pronged hand through the window gripping onto the wall and reaching a leg made off metal and sparking parts through the window. Mumbo threw the torch aside. Clearly it wasn’t going to do much. He needed something else. Mumbo backed up, looking around himself for a weapon.

The whole time he backed up the two-and-a-half-meter tall machinery was cramming itself in through the window. It was an ungodly length and Mumbo had little idea to how he was going to ‘defeat’ it so to speak. He’d be electrocuted if he laid a hand on it surely.

It was closer to him now. Mumbo made a quick decision. He bolted for the backdoor of the cabin and found an old shovel propped up against the wall. It had a wooden handle and a metal head. Mumbo hefted it and as the machinery worked its head inside the cabin, Mumbo chucked it at the creature. It collided with it with a metal twang.

For all he saw, it did absolutely nothing. The metal machinery made no noise. No complaint. Just continued coming towards him.

Mumbo unlocked the backdoor and bolted outside, his breath starting to burn his throat. Okay, okay. The cabin isn’t entirely safe. The book said that. That thing confirmed it. Where does he go? What does he do?

Mumbo glanced behind him and saw the ungodly machinery crawling towards him, reaching out the pole to jab at him again.

Run. He’s going to run until an idea strikes him.

Mumbo was still exhausted and aching all over his body, but he ran into the woods, only realizing with horror as he stepped on a rock, he was barefoot. Well, he sure hoped Grian delivered on his promise and helped him out.

Even if it meant being killed by Grian, he’d take prolonging his death.

The gremlin was nowhere in sight as Mumbo jogged the best he could, gritting his teeth to avoid thinking about his poor feet being shredded by the woods. He glanced behind him and saw to his horror that the machinery was keeping pace with its long limbs. The crackling behind him told him it was too near.

Mumbo pushed himself to run further and banged elbows and knees on roots and trees without a care. If his heart had been hammering any louder in his ears, he might not have heard the bird calling three high notes. But he did, and he saw a flash of color out of the corner of his eyes.

But despite that, no one came as Mumbo ran. He threw himself through brambles that tore at his skin as heard a loud sound of crackling to his left. He had barely dodged the pole that came swinging down next to him and he nearly lost his footing as he glanced back to see it right behind him.

What does he do? What does he do?

What can put out electricity? Water makes it worse, always. Fire? Fire sounded nice, but where was he getting that right now. Mud? Not enough of it around to cover the damn thing. There was water—there was a river. Would it follow him across it? What if it could short out the damn thing? Overload it. Electronics generally don’t work if they’re wet.

Does the redstone still work when wet?

Mumbo was going to find out. He glanced around himself, and despite everything looking exactly the damn same in these woods, he had a gut feeling. He’d entered the woods the same placed he always did, and he’d eventually ran into a river that one time, so maybe if he kept running, he’d find it.

The whoosh and crackle of electricity and a sharp jolt near his fingers that sent his heart racing told him that was a good choice as any. It was a partial plan, and a plan meant survival.

Mumbo closed his eyes for a second and fought past the pain in his feet and lungs and tired limbs and forced himself to go faster.

A loud gurgling groan sounded out and Mumbo glanced ahead and saw with horror, one of those horrible water zombies. Not now. Please, go away.

Wait. Maybe that meant he was near water. Despite all sanity screaming at him to not run anyway near the zombie, Mumbo altered his direction a little to run near it. It had to be near water. They seemed to like it enough not to leave it.

Mumbo had to slow down for a moment to dart around its outstretched hands and due to his dalliance, watched the pole come down on the water zombie and electrocute the zombie to its death. It was a bloody death, if he assumed the black ooze coming from the twitching zombie’s mouth was blood.

Regardless, Mumbo didn’t pause any longer taking off in the direction he assumed the zombie came from. He heard the faint gurgle of a stream and saw water ahead. It was the river he had fallen into earlier. Great. Well—this time he wasn’t falling into it.

Mumbo slid while running down the muddy slope, but he willed himself not to fall. His arms waved wildly outstretched as he kept his balance and as he neared the water he sprung into a leap and crashed face-first into the mud on the other side. He caught himself on a fern to keep from slipping into the river and rolled onto his back. He looked at the oncoming machinery with horror and a dawning sense that maybe this might be the end.

Or, Mumbo thought resolutely, this isn’t your end, Mumbo Jumbo. He pulled his legs out of the water and crawled further up the bank as the machinery stumbled down the muddy bank on its long limbs. It lashed out its pole centimeters from Mumbo’s arm and he could feel the hairs on his arm burning as it lunged at him.

Unlike him, the machinery hadn’t jumped. He wasn’t sure it could.

Its limbs were stuck in the mud and other than the pole embedded in the mud beside Mumbo, still crackling and burning the skin on his arm now, it fell into the river. Mumbo crawled backwards away from the pole and away from the machinery as it began to sink beneath the water and be pushed further down the river. Sparks were shooting across the water and the machinery, and the limb still attached to the pole convulsed and jerked erratically until it disconnected from the rest of the machinery.

As if that was the cue the machinery needed, it began to fall apart. The limbs were detached from each other, the old machinery melded together falling apart and being tugged apart by the river. Mumbo watched it all with relief, staring at the crackling pole and stumps of its limbs left on the other shoreline, the redstone still pulsing inside and the electricity crackling faintly.

He collapsed onto his back and let out a breath he’d been holding and fought to take some deep breaths to help his racing heart.

“Oh, thank goodness; I was hoping you weren’t going to die by that. Otherwise the promise goblins would have got me,” said a sing-song voice above him. Mumbo opened his eyes and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Faintly he could see red in the branches above and although he couldn’t see him, he could tell the voice by now.

“Grian.”

“Hello, Mumbo! Welcome back!”

It was almost said mockingly. Like he knew Mumbo had tried to leave. Like he knew Mumbo hadn’t planned on ever coming back. Warily, Mumbo sat up. Forcing his aching feet to bare his weight as he stood up to properly glare up at the gremlin he could hardly see in the trees.

He saw a sharp toothed grin as he did so and with a whoosh, Grian dropped down from the tree. Surprisingly, he didn’t land smoothly. Instead landing with a soft ‘ouch’ in front of Mumbo on hands and knees. It seemed to surprise Grian too, but he bounced back, dusting himself off.

“I keep forgetting. Tricky to remember, you know,” Grian said, scratching the small of his back absently. “Anyway, want to make a deal with me now. You seem to be in need of help.”

“No. Not again,” Mumbo said. He glanced to the river, and realized he wasn’t getting back across it. It was crackling with electricity and he wasn’t sure he had the energy to safely jump across.

He was barefoot, sweating, tired, covered in mud and dirt and bruises, and in boxers and a t-shirt. It only struck him now how very unprotected he was, and it struck him even harder when Grian clapped him on the back with too much force for someone his size.  
  
Right. He didn’t have the redstone torch to keep Grian back.

“Mumbo!” Grian said with too much cheer. “Come on. I have somewhere you can stay the night—for a price.”

“I’m not interested,” Mumbo said. He was starting to scan for another way across the river or when the river let up, but it was hard to focus on that with Grian menacingly standing nearby smiling at him with razor sharp teeth.

“Just answer me a few questions, Mumbo Jumbo. That’s all,” Grian prodded. He emphasized his point by tapping on Mumbo’s arm until Mumbo turned to him fully. “Good, first one—how was your attempt to leave the other day?”

Mumbo didn’t like that Grian knew. He less liked the way that smile tilted. The way his eyes pressed Mumbo. The mocking sort of tone, like Grian knew exactly why. “Terrible, how do you think it went if I’m still standing here.”

“I could have warned you about that,” Grian said, and he turned away from Mumbo, cheerily walking in a surefooted direction. “I mean, I did tell you I knew things. I know a lot, Mumbo. I may sound a bit naïve; I may look a bit silly, but I know things.”

“How did you know I tried to leave?” Mumbo questioned, and despite himself he followed Grian.

“No. No—that won’t do,” Grian turned to him, put out a finger and before Mumbo could bat it away, poked it into Mumbo’s chest. “You don’t ask me questions. You give me answers. I don’t need to give you information. You need to give me information and in return, I’ll make sure you don’t die until morning. And I’ll have fulfilled my end of saving you from a threat.”

“Then you’ll probably kill me after,” Mumbo said. “And also, that’s a theoretical threat. There’s no guarantee me standing around here in pajamas will lead to my death, now is there?”

Grian rolled his eyes, or at least Mumbo guessed that’s what his eyes were doing. “Mumbo, Mumbo, Mumbo—why so difficult. I’m only helping.”

“You have been the least bit helpful.”

“Tell me what you did to come here, Mumbo?”

It sent a chill down his spine. It was like Grian knew he’d done something. Mumbo shook his head and decided. “Fine. You know what. I’m going to walk home. I’ll be fine. Goodbye, Grian.” He could tell right away he’d upset the non-human, but it Grian didn’t do anything. Instead he stared daggers into Mumbo’s back as he walked away, resolutely tracing the path alongside the river until he was sure it would become something else.

“Mumbo Jumbo I wasn’t finished,” Grian said, a nasally whine entering his voice.

“I was.”

Not surprisingly, now Grian followed. Kicking rocks behind him, some of those rocks hitting his bare heels painfully. “You remind me of someone,” Grian decided. Mumbo ignored him. They walked in silence, Mumbo resolutely scanning his surroundings for threats and possible danger and Grian walking behind him as if waiting for his chance to save Mumbo so he could finally kill him. Either that, or Grian was desperate for attention.

Mumbo decided it was both when Grian spoke up again after only minutes of silence. “I think I have a fantastic deal. One you’ll really like.”

“Not likely.”

“We’ll be allies. Partners in trade. A very simple trade. You get me back something that was taken from me, I’ll pay you back in favors until I feel we’re of equal worth—then, back to how we are now.”

Mumbo couldn’t believe a river could be so long and a walk could be so painful on so many levels. “No.”

“Hear out the deal, Mumbo Jumbo. I used to have something, but _someone_ took it. They’re worth nearly my life to have them back. Likely, I won’t ever consider the debt paid back to you. I am a rather generous person, you know?”

“I highly doubt that,” Mumbo muttered.

“You haven’t even given me a chance, honestly Mumbo. Stop being so pessimistic,” Grian rebutted. “The only small teensie tiny issue is you’ll definitely have to kill the person who took them to get the wings back. Although, what’s a little murder.”

Mumbo was a bit too outraged at that odd of a type of request to resist glancing at Grian. Grian just smiled at him again, clearly pleased he’d gotten Mumbo’s attention.

“What did they steal that demands murder?” Mumbo asked with a scoff. “Not that I would ever kill anyone.”

Grian went quiet now, looking out into the woods as if debating whether to tell Mumbo of this item. After a moment, Grian let out a quiet hum. “He stole my wings.”

“Your…wings?” Mumbo questioned. Grian nodded and gestured behind—no, to his back.

“Yes.”

“Were they…not attached to you?” Mumbo questioned. He had to stop walking now to really watch Grian as he uncovered this mystifying information. Grian just looked at him.

“They were apart of me.”

“So, excuse me for this, but how will getting them back help you. That’s like getting an arm chopped off and just—getting the arm back wouldn’t fix anything.”

“Not for you, maybe,” Grian said and he crossed his arms. “Listen, Mumbo. It seems like you might survive longer than some of the others, and I don’t particularly like having to deal with someone who waves around a redstone torch in my direction. It’s annoying.”

“Well, excuse me. I don’t like being almost murdered,” Mumbo muttered. Grian handwaved his complaint.

“Provided you’re no threat to me now,” Grian muttered airily, “I don’t like risks. I say you retrieve my wings, and we’ll keep this partnership up. It has to go both ways though. I don’t like being betrayed, Mumbo Jumbo.”

Mumbo nearly laughed incredulously. He had been nearly killed by many things in the woods, and now Grian had the gall to imply Mumbo was the dangerous one here. The gut of this man must be something else. “Yes, fine. That sounds all well and good, I suppose. I’m not going to kill whoever it is to get your wings, that’s ridiculous. But I’ll go get your wings back, _if_ I’m able.”

Grian’s eyes lit up. Literally. The black seemed to glow in the darkness.

“But,” Mumbo held up his finger, mocking how Grian had earlier. He jabbed the small gremlin in the chest. “I can’t guarantee I’ll succeed. I’m not risking my life for them.”

“Shake on it?” Grian asked.

“Absolutely not,” Mumbo said. “You’re...you’re like a damn fae, Grian.”

“Those don’t exist,” Grian said. “You’re the type to believe in fairies? Didn’t put it to you. You seem all no-nonsense.” Grian put a finger up under his nose and mocked Mumbo’s voice. “I’m Mr. Jumbo, I don’t like fun and games. I only like eating plain cereal and reading books and talking about boring things.”

“Oh, shut it,” Mumbo muttered as Grian giggled. “I don’t like how you’re weirdly obsessed with deals.”

“Am not,” Grian said defensively. “That’s just how Sc—that’s just how business is done in these woods. Deals. Contracts. Makes sure things go smoothly.”

Mumbo had caught Grian’s trip-up but could not place a name to the sound he’d heard. At any rate, since everyone had to use a false name, it’d be useless to guess what the name could be. “Right, right. Well, if that’s the case then,” Mumbo said slowly, not missing the way Grian’s grin was growing wider and more menacing. Damn him. Damn it all.

“So, we have another deal?” Grian stuck out his hand.

“The deal being I retrieve your wings, this whole you’re planning to kill me after you fulfill your first deal thing ends and we both mind our own and not bother each other—” Mumbo let himself stop seeing Grian’s hand retract. “What?”

“No,” Grian said, his grin evaporating. “Not ‘mind our own,’ Mumbo Jumbo. We’re going to be helping each other. I expect you to at least come by and say hello. Maybe pop-in and have some tea once in a while. This is a partnership, and partnerships must be maintained through regular courteous interactions not this ‘minding your own,’” Grian said firmly, crossing his arms.

“You want me to be your friend, don’t you?” Mumbo asked exasperated.

“It’s a mutually beneficial trade of services. I’ll give you information and you give me your time and ear, and vice versa,” Grian stated. He stopped for a moment, seeing Mumbo’s eyebrows raising drastically. “And we don’t try and harm one another or our residences. That too. Although,” Grian’s smile returned a little. “I think pranks are still allowed.”

“You’re joking, right? I am trying to fight for my life here,” Mumbo gestured to the surrounding woods.

“You’re as stiff as a corpse, Mumbo, relax. Pranks are good at easing tension—and I haven’t done non-deadly ones in a while, so it’ll be a good exercise,” Grian said thoughtfully.

Goodness sake. Mumbo looked around himself, confirming he hadn’t died yet or was about to and just stared down at Grian. “You know what, fine. That sounds all well and good, but none of that begins until after I get the wings and our other deal still holds true,” Mumbo said, and he reluctantly stuck his hand out. If he wanted to back out of this second deal, he could. All he had to do was not get the wings

Grian smirked.

“Pleasure doing business, Mumbo Jumbo,” he said, and he shook Mumbo’s hand. “And the person who took my wings is still in these woods, if you were wondering.”

“Great, great. Do you know where or have an idea at least?” Mumbo asked, although he wasn’t sure he wanted the information.

“No, although he isn’t hard to find. There aren’t any dogs in the woods, other than…well, anyway. So, if you see a dog. It’s not real. And that’s how you’ll know he’s nearby,” Grian rambled, walking past Mumbo Jumbo in the direction Mumbo was going earlier. “He always checks on new people eventually. Doesn’t like the woods or Con Corp.”

Mumbo followed after him with a sigh. “Don’t suppose you’ll tell me who he is, or why he doesn’t like Con Corp?”

“I don’t know,” Grian said. He let out a long whistle and not surprisingly, Mumbo nearly lost his skin from how hard he jumped when bird talons gripped his hair. He did not swat at the parrot, but he did shoot a glare at Grian. “Or if I did know, I don’t think you should yet.”

“I suppose you’re walking me home again,” Mumbo muttered.

“You supposed right. Consider it…a reward,” Grian flashed him a menacing, but cheery smile. “I’m glad you’re becoming amenable to deals, Mumbo Jumbo.”

“I’m glad I’m losing my mind enough not to really grasp the foolishness of making them,” Mumbo muttered, mocking Grian’s cheery tone.

“I think we’ll be very good friends,” Grian said.

“I think you’re going to kill me,” Mumbo retorted.

“Cheer up, Mumbo. If I do kill you, I’ll add your head to my wall of heads,” Grian said, and Mumbo glanced at him, opened his mouth to ask, and then closed it.

Foolish indeed for making a deal with him.

Grian did indeed know his way around the place, and Mumbo suffered in silence walking until they came upon the picnic tables again. Grian glanced at them, whistled to Polly the parrot and disappeared back into the woods with only a cheery, “Good Morning, Mumbo!”

And Grian was right. The sun was rising.

Mumbo cursed the night of no-sleep and headed back to the cabin, expecting to find his window shattered and his living room a mess. He entered through the backdoor he left open and found…nothing was broken. The window was fine, as if nothing had happened. The blinds and curtains hanging neatly from them as if it hadn’t been disturbed. The only sign that thing had wrecked into his home was a remain of claw mark on the paneling.

Mumbo ran his fingers across it and shivered.

“Oh, thank goodness. You didn’t die from that thing!”

Mumbo jumped out of his skin and turned to Bdubs who was standing in the living room, peaking out at Mumbo from where he’d been apparently hiding in the walls. “I was just…staying out of sight. So, you know. It didn’t go after me.” He took a second look at Mumbo. “Oh, man. You look…”

“Don’t say it,” Mumbo said. “I know how I look.”

“No, no! I was going to say you look…uh…fine! Great even! Not at all like you had a losing fight with a tree,” Bdubs explained away.

Mumbo sighed. He gestured to the window. “What happened? This was broken. Did you fix it?”

Bdubs shook his head. “Oh, no. That’s normal. The cabin always returns to normal. It kind of heals itself. I noticed from when I was killed.”

“What?” Mumbo asked dryly.

Bdubs gestured to their surroundings. “Yeah! I noticed it kind of repairs itself! It’s like that children’s movie; Monster House! The cabin is kind of alive, I guess. Or at least magical. Maybe like Hogwarts!”

Mumbo looked around himself and did not feel reassured or even comforted by the cabin anymore. Spooky woods. Spooky cabin. Spooky gas station. No way out. Great. Mumbo retrieved the redstone torch still lying on the ground in the living room where he’d tossed it.

“I,” Mumbo announced, “am going to take a shower and sleep until the next big monster comes tearing through the house. This time warn me.”

“Sure, sure thing. I just,” Bdubs wrapped his arms around himself awkwardly. “Didn’t want to draw, you know. It on me. I like not being completely dead, dead. You know. I have no idea what the after-life entails and—”

Mumbo closed the door to the bathroom, cutting off what Bdubs was saying and he slumped against the door. No. No. He couldn’t do that again. He needed out of here. The only clue he had was what little he knew about Con Corp, Bdubs, the journal, the cellar, whoever was still out in the woods that came and took the food—maybe I. and the guy that took Grian’s wings were the same. Maybe not.

It looked like the only way to find out anything was to go trekking out into the woods and almost get killed, and right now. Mumbo was not in the mood for that.

He was taking a vacation from leaving the cabin until he was forced to by the next monster. He was eating, he was gathering his thoughts and he was going to wait for his feet to heal from their impromptu barefoot excursion.


	4. Find A Way Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Some dissociative style content/questioning of reality.

Chapter 4: _To Find a Way Out_

_"The Doctor's Tip #4: “Don’t try to leave the obvious way. If it was that easy to leave—who would stay?”_

Mumbo enjoyed four days of peace from monsters. It was not a quiet four days, but the noise didn’t make it bad.

In the mornings and afternoons, he was kept entertained by Bdubs. As it turns out with his limited entertainment options, it left a lot of time to end up talking with his new roommate. Mumbo never thought of himself as _too_ connected; he averaged the same amount of time online everyone his age did, but now it felt like he was very…lost.

Old habits die hard, and the amount of times he’d gone to quickly open his phone and scroll to something hadn’t disappeared.

At night, he was left theorizing, rationalizing, planning and worrying. Mumbo’s eyes would drift to the doorway, to the window in his room. What was lurking out there? Would it come in? What could he do? His eyes would go to the redstone torch. A solace. A warm flickering hearth amidst the void of foreboding dark within the cabin.

One of the tips kept coming back to him. Trust only the you that entered. He was most definitely human. Rationally, it was silly to think otherwise. Mumbo did as every human did. Ate, drank, swallowed, chewed, blinked, breathed, twitched, his muscles seizing and getting sore as the day progressed from tensing them too often. He coughed when he drank water too fast. Nothing said he wasn’t human.

Still. Mumbo had checked his wallet. He’d never had a credit card in there since he got in his truck that morning with his belongings and left. He knew that. He had to get rid of it and his debit card.

What had he paid with when he entered, and why hadn’t Ren commented on it?

When he checked his wallet, his ID didn’t look like his reflection. It felt off. He was missing something. His face looked just ever-so-slightly different. Not by age or by a slight variation in how he styled his hair, but something behind the eyes.

Mumbo Jumbo was not superstitious, and decided he was having a very terrible reaction to the unforeseen amount of stress he was suddenly under and lacking the usual coping methods he’d normally have.

_Goodness sake, you can believe the tales of an unknown Doctor or you can believe the sane and rational mind you know you have._

It was why Mumbo preferred the morning and afternoons, rather than the hours between sleep where he was stirred awake from vague images of nightmares or dreams, he could not grasp, and sounds he swore he heard. Mumbo chased them away. Hypnopompic hallucinations. It all comes with stress; the brain will sometimes harmlessly hallucinate visions and sounds and things—nonreal.

It helped to talk to someone.

Bdubs loved to talk.

“You know, I was told _five_ years I’d have to camp out here and you were only told how many?”

“Six months,” Mumbo said.

He was currently cooking and debating on what to make for a side dish. He did need the vegetables for strength. Though his focus wasn’t entirely on his task. His mind kept zoning out periodically as of late into strange liminal space.

Bdubs was hovering somewhere in the doorway, expecting peeling paint that if the cabin never changed, had no right to be peeling. Or so Bdubs had pointed out and Mumbo had agreed, although he didn’t think twice about it.

“That’s horseshit,” Bdubs protested with his hands on his hips. “Excuse my language, but they’re certainly playing unfairly. You get half-a-year and I give up a good portion of my life!” Bdubs shook his head, muttering a few complaints under his breath Mumbo missed.

“What’d you—why’d you take the deal?” Mumbo asked. He stirred the pot on the stove absently.

“Debt. Lots and lots of debt,” Bdubs said. With a sigh, he continued. “I won’t bore you with the details. It…it was just too much for all the things happening in my life so when Con Corp wrote me a check to pay it off then and there with a small favor to watch their cabin for five years all by lonesome…”

Mumbo grimaced. “We were desperate,” he said.

Bdubs laughed. He just shook his head. “Oh, that’s rich. They definitely knew we were fools in bad situations. How about you?”

Mumbo felt drawn back to the present all too quickly, sweat running down the back of his neck. A taste of bile in the back of his throat. “I made a very bad mistake at work. It had some repercussions,” he said quietly.

“Must have been pretty bad to be here,” Bdubs said quietly. Mumbo nodded.

“It…It was,” he turned the burner off and turned to face Bdubs, resting his back on the counter. “I was hoping after the six months it’d—it’d be a clean start,” Mumbo said.

“It’s how they get us!” Bdubs said. “We all want free of something!” His exasperated throw of the hands brought a small chuckle to Mumbo and he just nodded. It was all the prompting Bdubs needed to continue. “Mumbo, my new friend, I may not be able to ever leave, but you… _you_ might still find a way! I’ll help you how I can. We can stick it to Con Corp. Clearly, no one’s ever left! We’ll be the first,” Bdubs said with a lot of dynamic hand gestures.

Mumbo smiled, grateful, but if that were the case, they had a lot of work ahead of them to figure out how to get out or worst comes to worst, ride out the six months. That counted on that Con Corp had been telling the truth about that much.

Mumbo was starting to feel the name _Con_ Corp gave the answer away.

…

On the last morning of Mumbo’s four-day break from the woods, something came in the night. Bdubs told him this as he tried to rouse Mumbo earlier than he’d like to be awoken. Bdubs told him it was a package with a letter attached. Mumbo got up, grabbed the redstone torch and followed after Bdubs.

“I tried to get it myself, but I still haven’t been able to pick-up packages…or it was very heavy,” Bdubs told him as Mumbo got up reluctantly. The sun wasn’t even out yet, but he supposed there was no putting it off with how odd the woods could be. “Someone dropped it off,” Bdubs continued. “I didn’t see who, it was too dark out. They should really install a porch lamp out here!”

Mumbo hummed his agreement, but he was already mentally preparing to fight whatever was in the box. He picked it up from where it sat on the small porch and glanced around outside. Even with the redstone torch lighting some of the area, it was still not enough to reveal if someone was watching at the edge of the woods.

The box was about the size of a book, hardly large and rather than a letter, like Bdubs had said, a sticky-note was on top of the box. It was a bright-blue sticky note with something written on it. He was still blinking away sleep and could just make out the words looked like English.

He grabbed the box, a little surprised by how light it was, and brought it inside to where Bdubs was waiting by the coffee table in the cabin. Mumbo set it down and pulled the sticky-note off to read it.

“To the uninitiated dragged here, here’s a message you’ll want to hear. Leave the wings, avoid the strings; don’t let him be your puppeteer.”

-Joe Hills.

He shared aloud the note to Bdubs who just looked at him wide-eyed, clearly not having any more of a clue then he did. Mumbo braced himself for the worst the box could hold. It turns out it was all for nothing.

A long gray feather sat inside.

Mumbo at first was puzzled. Feather. What did it mean? Why a feather?

Oh. _Oh._

“Right, that deal,” Mumbo muttered. It looks like the person, Joe Hills, who had Grian’s wings already knew that Grian was plotting to get them back.

“What deal? What’s it mean?” Bdubs asked. He hadn’t yet ever told Bdubs what conversations he was having with their neighborhood gremlin, but since Bdubs was his only ally so far, now was the time.

“I may have made a deal with Grian, the black-eyed fellow in the woods,” Mumbo glanced at Bdubs to see his reaction, but he was just nodding. “If I got his wings back, he’d not kill me and be a kind of…friend? Trade partner?”

Bdubs took a moment, absorbing what Mumbo told him, then decided, “Mumbo, no offense, that sounds like a bad deal.” To cement this statement, he put a hand over Mumbo’s shoulder.

Mumbo waved it away, only succeeding in waving a hand through Bdubs’ arm. “I was peer pressured into it,” Mumbo defended.

“Don’t worry. Let detective Bdubs figure this out…”

“You were a detective?”

“No, an architect, but I played a mean game of Werewolf,” Bdubs assured him. He began pacing, putting a hand to his chin and adopting what Bdubs must have thought was a rather good Sherlock pose, but Mumbo thought he looked daft.

“Bdubs—”

“He didn’t talk to me much when I was here,” Bdubs cut him off. “I came across him while going on a walk, and he asked me what I liked. I told him designing buildings, and he seemed pretty happy and asked me to show him some of my designs. He did compliment my drawings of buildings when I showed him, but then immediately took them, because he’s kind of sticky-fingered I noticed! He left me alone after that,” Bdubs said.

He paused thoughtfully, looking to recall information. “Though once in a while after that my door would be missing! The house would fix it a few hours later, but sometimes it’d be gone again! I’m sure it was him! He also took my lawn decorations and put them in trees!”

“He’s an odd one,” Mumbo said.

“He also rubs me the wrong way. I wouldn’t want to be in a deal with him,” Bdubs said but in afterthought added. “But he has good tastes in houses if he likes mine.”

Mumbo cracked a smile. He surveyed the note and feather with some thought. “Does the name Joe Hills ring a bell?”

“Not a clue.”

“Er…” Mumbo tried to remember what Grian had told him. Something about dogs being the clue to finding Joe. He hoped they weren’t the dog-like monsters. “If I’m going back into the woods, I need a plan. A way to map where I’m going.”

Bdubs nodded. “I can tell you marking trees didn’t work. The markings always disappeared,” Bdubs said.

“How about the redstone?” Mumbo questioned. Bdubs just shrugged. “If I could get a bunch of it and lay it down, then it’d be less likely to be moved, right? None of the creatures want to touch it and if it’s dark out, whenever I put my torch near it, it lights up? Simple.”

“Great!” Bdubs said. “That sounds brilliant! Do you have the stuff? Where do we get it?”

Mumbo’s excitement fell. “I haven’t managed to puzzle that out yet. I’ve stumbled upon it more than I’ve really found it. Someone must have a stash of it. I wonder if Iskall or Joe Hills does? Iskall seems to know an awful lot and he’s left a clue to as where he lives. Joe Hills’s location was…look for dogs?”

“Mumbo, it sounds like you’ll have to go wandering the woods and just hope you run into either of them which is kind of the predicament we’re in in the first place?” Bdubs pointed out.

Mumbo agreed. He tapped his finger to his chin trying to think up a workaround. “If I explored the woods during the day, it surely wouldn’t be as hard, right?”

Bdubs shrugged. “My experience is monsters are monsters in the morning or night. Though some of them do look a little less scary in bright light,” Bdubs said with a shrug. “It just seems too dangerous.”

“I’ll be able to see around me at the very least,” Mumbo said.

Bdubs nodded in reluctant agreement. “Okay, okay. I just…just your kind of growing on me. Don’t die so soon, Mumbo. I’ll feel bad,” Bdubs said.

Mumbo shook his head. “Thanks, Bdubs.” The uneasy smile Bdubs gave him made Mumbo still feel bad that at night he had fears Bdubs would reveal he was truly a dementor and start feeding on his soul.

“I’m not going in as blind as before,” Mumbo assured him. “I’m going to portion off some of my dry foods and some fresh ones, and maybe an old blanket. Iskall did ask for that and chances are, he’s in need of supplies. I could make a deal with him, surely?”

“Or he could be coocoo and he’ll end up killing you,” Bdubs pointed out.

“I’m going to hope he isn’t,” Mumbo stated.

Bdubs let him be and Mumbo dug out a movie he hadn’t watched yet to put on for Bdubs. If Bdubs had any taste in movies, it seems being dead and limited in his interactions with any tangible objects had nearly erased them, because he’d sit through anything.

Mumbo realized with a growing feeling of pity and fear he was growing to loathe the idea that he might die and end up like Bdubs. The idea of being able to feel nothing. Touch nothing. Existing as an image of your former self.

Mumbo shuddered. He had to avoid dying. Although he thought, wasn’t that everyone’s goal?

Mumbo went through his belongings he’d shoved inside a closet and found an old backpack from Uni days in his winter-clothes storage. Good, good. Something to use.

He found a small blanket and shoved it in the bottom and then set off to the cellar to choose foods.

He reasoned the foods had to be something easy to cook without access to a stove and set about the task. If Iskall had lived this long, then it was reasonable to assume he had access to fresh drinkable water and something to cook with.

With that out of the way, he had one last thing he hoped to find. A weapon.

Mumbo did not have a handy collection of weapons on hand. He had a wrench too small to consider useful, plenty of screwdrivers, and a hammer, a dumbbell, an iron pipe—wait, why and where was that from? Mumbo looked at the iron pipe. It continued sitting innocently in the kitchen. Mumbo placed it in the kitchen cabinet under the sink and decided no, not the time.

Regardless, nothing he had would truly hold weight in a fight. He put all the opponents he’d come up against, and none of those seemed like they’d do more than temporarily faze them. Mumbo finally settled on no weapon.

He’d considered a kitchen knife, but then thought better of what Bdubs had said. Grian was sticky-fingered, and he had a feeling even if he wasn’t trying to encounter Grian, the idea of Grian getting his hands on a knife Mumbo so carelessly brought with him sent a wave of fear up his throat. Grian holding a knife was not a good image. After all…the aforementioned head wall.

No, Mumbo had never learned to fight with a knife, and he was not so carelessly going to think having one would save him.

No weapon it is. Mumbo would have to use the redstone torch or pure bartering to get out of any altercations.

Mumbo deemed himself ready, and waved goodbye to Bdubs before departing.

…

Walking in the woods during the day was not as seamless or pleasant as he hoped. There were birdcalls, bugs, and the feeling of the sun burning his skin off as he sweated carelessly in a t-shirt and jeans. Sweat pooled above his eyebrows and under his moustache. A cruel sentence in hell this was, thinking walking through the woods in the middle of the day would be any more pleasant.

Sure, there wasn’t monsters diving out at him, but this was hardly anymore fun. The backpack weighed on his shoulders as he progressed, heading south of his cabin with his phone’s compass out. It was as reliable as it normally was. Although, the battery would change numbers every time he looked at it. Mumbo gave up when it turned to 101%.

Either his phone needed a severe check-up to make sure the programming was still working, or the nature of the woods was messing with him.

Mumbo told himself to keep his mind free of overthinking the little things, or he’d go crazy.

He was going crazy.

Mumbo pushed aside a terribly large spider web with his hand, and he swallowed heavily, unable to ignore the chill running down his throat as he did. Come now, Mumbo, normal spiders make large webs when left undisturbed.

Still, the idea of even a normal spider on him didn’t sound pleasant at all.

Distracted by the spider web he was still trying to dislodge from his arm, he nearly didn’t notice the small drop off as the ground beneath him changed to carved stone. He did notice when his left foot hit air and reflexively he fell on his ass, managing not to fall face-first six-feet into a literal pit of bones.

The bones were not the intimidating part. The intimidating part was where he was at. A pavilion of sorts, where a circle of vines hung in the center. The four pillars holding up the ceiling were carved with various inscriptions and forsaken symbols of human death, and beneath the upraised circle, six feet down, was a pit of bones. Not human bones or even animal bones—no. They were bones clearly meant for dogs. Some were rubber, others felt, and some were the normal twisted bones you gave to a dog.

Mumbo stared at the pit of bones and saw two adorable eyes staring back at him. This for sure, was a dog. A labradoodle puppy with eyes fixed on him as it selected a squeaky bone, barked, and then disappeared entirely from existence as it dived into the center of the pit.

He really hoped this was not the way to find Joe Hills. Mumbo stood up and glanced around the pavilion and studied the inscriptions and images on the pillar. No, no—those were humans dying violently to the dog-like creatures he’d seen before. That hadn’t been a mistake.

The words didn’t feel like any sort of alphabet, but more like someone had inscribed a feeling of intense anguish and hatred into these stone in the general look of letter-like shapes, but instead all Mumbo got from looking at them was an intense feeling of dismay and fear.

Mumbo stopped looking at them.

Detour time it is.

Mumbo avoided the pavilion, choosing to walk around it, even as another dog ran past him. A Shibu Innu with a wagging tail and a happy trot. Even with it only inches from him, he could not feel the dog physically there. And like before, the dog vanished entirely once it dived into the bone pit.

No. No, not questioning that or investigating that. That wasn’t on today’s list of things to explore or question. Mumbo opened the notes app on his phone, made a note of the surroundings, took a picture of it and added it to his phone notes. The picture came out in the wrong colors. As if someone had decided some colors were not allowed, but it would help him find it later if he needed to.

He gripped the redstone torch until his knuckles turned white and he finally felt the inscriptions on the pillars leave his mind.

No. No more of that. He’s looking for Iskall.

As Mumbo wandered the woods, a few times he heard a sound like groaning or growling, similar to the water-zombies he’d seen before. When he looked into the woods around him, he saw dead eyes hiding in dark corners, but not moving from them. The sun, it seems, was a deterrent. Mumbo still walked faster when he saw their gnashing sharp teeth flashing in the shadows.

It felt like an hour or two into his journey that Mumbo finally realized one of the bird calls was too familiar. Not that anyone asked, but his phone also decided telling time was no longer a function it wished to do, and Mumbo would check his time reflexively only to see the exact same number as before. It was not 16:04. Yet, according to his phone. It had been 16:04 for a long while now. Mumbo sighed, pocketed his phone and turned to look at the bird.

It was not Polly, but another parrot. This one with red feathers. It hopped and flew along treetops, pausing when Mumbo did, following him when he moved on. It never changed tune. Humming the three same notes continuously as it followed.

Mumbo did not know what to make of it. He decided to try his best to ignore it, but now that he was aware of it, his ears kept homing in on the rising notes. Low, medium, high. Low, medium, high. It became infuriating and yet remained disturbing. An unnatural tune following him without remorse.

No, no, no, no—ignore the bird. Just, focus on finding Iskall. Mumbo pulled his phone back out and looked at the compass and the direction he was heading.

South. Head south.

The woods thinned out the further he went, until it was nearly what looked to be a small plain. Wildflowers were wilting in the sun. False blue indigos mixed with foxtails and gamma grass. A few sunflowers stood around. Mumbo’s eyes swept around the flowers and grasses to the sight beyond. A canyon. What other words could describe it.

In an area of flattened grass up ahead the remains of a railroad teetered off along with a bridge not meant for the area it crossed. The bridge looked to have been built to go across a two-meter-deep river, but instead had been dislocated to a canyon stretching far, far down. Parts of the bridge remained on either side, but nothing usable.

Beside the remains of railroad was a few train carts. Two were upright, but off track, and one turned over entirely. They looked to have been disconnected from the engine which…Mumbo had a feeling had not made it out.

The railroad itself was another fixture that didn’t make sense. It seemed like it had been…displaced. As if cut-and-pasted from somewhere else or rather… As Mumbo drew nearer to it, he eyed the gravel around the rails and even a few flattened pennies and signs of life in the form of normal human garbage. The normal civilization the woods had lacked was deeply embedded into the rails.

Maybe it was the opposite. These rails had existed and then something and been cut-and-pasted on top of it.

Mumbo was just about to consider inspecting the train carts when he heard footsteps behind him.

“Not one more step, or I’ll smash your brains out,” said a man.

Mumbo paused. Train carts! This must be where Iskall lived. He figured at this point, it was time to see if Bdubs was right, coocoo or reasonable. “Iskall?”

A pause. With a crunch of the gravel a figure was in front of him who looked worn, baked from the sun and had callouses on his hands. He had a wild beard and hair, maintained by a rough blade by the looks of it, and shadowed eyes squinting at him and inspecting him from head to toe. Something was odd about the man’s left eye, but when Mumbo tried to look closer, Iskall turned.

“Ah, the new person at the cabin. By my estimates, you’ve only been out here…what..11 or 12 days?” Iskall guessed.

Mumbo nodded. That sounded right. “Yes.”

Iskall looked impressed. “And already starting to figure it all out—at least the important bit, which is your life is at risk and there’s crazy shit out here?” Iskall asked.

Mumbo nodded once more. Iskall sighed, looked him over, but his shoulders didn’t fall from where they were tensed. Instead, he cast a look around them, his eyes scanning the woods Mumbo came from. “Almost seems like a trap. Prove to me you aren’t Con Corp.”

Mumbo wasn’t sure about how to do that. “Er…how so?”

Iskall thought about it. He noticed the bag on Mumbo’s back.

“For starters, what’s in the bag?” Iskall questioned.

That, Mumbo could work with. “I saw your note in the cellar, and I figured we might be able to trade some things.” Mumbo took off the backpack and set it between them. He knelt down to unzip it, aware that Iskall still had a grip on what looked to be a pickaxe of all things. Mumbo pulled out the food he’d carefully organized and wrapped and presented it to Iskall and showed him the blanket.

“I can trade more with you. The two things I think I want from you are information and…redstone,” Mumbo said tentatively. He was aware if Iskall really wanted to, he could indeed brain Mumbo with the pickaxe and take the goods and walk away. Let him be right over Bdubs.

Iskall considered what he brought. “Interesting. Con Corp or not, this could…” Iskall considered it. “This could be doable. Although, what you brought won’t be enough for most of the information I hold. For starters, do you have spare soap, scissors and toothpaste,” Iskall asked. “As much as I have an enjoyable time stealing from the dead before Con Corp cleans the place out, I don’t exactly get a good amount of time to do so and sometimes I’m not able to get what I need.”

That explained a lot about how Iskall could survive. It seemed like a dark situation, but he supposed stealing from the dead was marginally better than stealing from the living. “And you do have redstone?”

“Why do you want to know so bad?” Iskall questioned. He was immediately on guard. His knuckles turning white around the handle of the pickaxe.

“I’m,” Mumbo thought about his words and took a deep breath. “I’m hoping to use it to navigate the woods, but I’ll need more than just this torch,” Mumbo said, gesturing with the torch.

“Ambitious, aren’t you?” Iskall questioned. “This sounds a lot like a Con Corp trap. Why should I trust you?”

Mumbo didn’t know. He zipped up the backpack and handed it to Iskall in a hopeful show of good faith, but he wasn’t buying it. He was holding the pickaxe at alert now. Any fumble of words and Mumbo might be in trouble.

“My name’s Mumbo Jumbo. I just…I’m not Con Corp. I don’t frankly understand what this place is, or why this is all happening, but I’m not here to hurt you,” Mumbo assured.

“Mumbo, huh? Well, Mumbo. If you’re really not Con Corp, then tell me—why is that bird following you? Is it a spy bird?”

Mumbo looked behind him and saw the parrot sitting on an old wooden bench that’d been overtaken by the prairie.

“No, no,” Mumbo assured gesturing his hands frantically. “I just…that’s…you know Grian—”

“What, are you in cahoots with him?”

“No! I made a deal with him, two actually now,” Mumbo admitted. “And I think he spies on me with these birds.”

Iskall looked at the bird, then Mumbo, then back at the bird. All at once his grip slackened on the pickaxe and he started laughing. A loud and hearty chuckle from the chest. “Oh man, you’re clearly not quite the survivor I thought you were and you sure as hell aren’t Con Corp then!” Iskall rested the pickaxe on his shoulder. “No one at Con Corp would be dumb enough to make a deal with Grian of all things.”

“To be fair,” Mumbo said, “He is quite good at getting under the skin.”

“That he is,” Iskall said. He finally took the backpack throwing it over his shoulder. “Fine, fine. I believe you, Mumbo Jumbo. You’re just a new player to this infernal game. If you’re going to last long, you should learn deals are about the dumbest thing you can make here.” Iskall gestured to the backpack. “Trades, all well and good. One and done. Deals—no. Especially not with that thing in the woods. Grian is—you know what a genie is or that old myth?” Iskall asked. He began walking away, waving for Mumbo to follow him. Mumbo, despite his unease of the situation, did.

“Yes. Like from Aladdin,” Mumbo said.

“Yes and no, more from the old tales of, ‘genie delivers your wish in the worst way possible,” Iskall got to the train-cart in the finest condition and opened the door. He gestured Mumbo in first which Mumbo hoped was a sign of welcoming, and not because he was planning to kill him. “See, everyone in these woods seems to want to make deals, the ones who aren’t planning on killing you first, and those deals…have consequences,”

“So, I’ve gathered,” Mumbo said. “Although, surely it can’t be that bad.” He looked around the train cart and saw it had been transformed from what might have been a freight train into a cozy living space.

Shelves had been hastily assembled and held food in a meter large makeshift kitchen area. A few skillets sat in a plastic bin. The ceiling was only a good five centimeters from Mumbo’s head, but Iskall made better use of the space, maneuvering around it with a practiced ease. Iskall sat in a lawn chair in what must have been his living-room-esque area. Near him books were organized neatly, and an old radio sat turned off on top of a stack. Various pieces of tech in various states of repair were dumped neatly in an old filing cabinet drawer.

Iskall gestured for Mumbo to sit down across from him. There was no chair available, but there was a clear amount of floor space. Mumbo even noticed an old broom and set of rags in the corner. Somehow, Iskall made living on the fringes of a hostile and cruel living environment surviving off the bare minimum look cozy and niche. Iskall had pulled the backpack off and set it under the chair to presumably sort later. He leaned back to talk to Mumbo.

“You haven’t lived here for as long as I have, and that’s…” Iskall said after a moment. “And for me, that’s a long time. I have an old notebook. I use it to keep up with the dates and all. Keeps me from completely losing it.”

Mumbo nodded. He had a lot of questions now he was sitting here in front of someone who knew more. These past 11 days had felt like the longest and most stressful of his entire life and he just wanted some clarity. Some reassurance.

Iskall seemed to sense him brimming with questions. “No, please don’t. I can’t handle a tirade. It’s been awhile since I talked to someone face to face. At least a few months. Let’s start simply. I’m Iskall, I’ve been here for…” Iskall counted on his fingers. “Six, seven, eight—eight years.”

“Eight years!” Mumbo was flabbergasted. “How!”

“Sheer determination and a lot of nights of losing sleep. Point is, I’m a veteran of the woods. And let me get one thing out of the way very, very, very early. There’s no way out. Believe me, I’ve combed every part of this woods. I have a map of all the central things here. There’s no way out.”

Mumbo couldn’t believe that. Iskall couldn’t be human. He couldn’t be! He could…not be? Iskall hid his left eye often, and when Mumbo looked at it for long enough. It seemed, odd.

“There has to be. How long did Con Corp tell you, you’d be here—”

“One year,” Iskall cut him off. “And guess what happened at the end of the first year.”

“They didn’t let you out?” Mumbo asked.

Iskall smiled grimly. “More than that, Mumbo Jumbo. It got worse. Much, much worse. I don’t think…see…let me be honest, Mumbo Jumbo. I also made a few deals in the past. A few deals I very much regret. One of those deals is…well. I was wondering if either Grian finally learned how redstone worked or did someone, you possibly, come along and disrupt it?”

“I was right guessing that was you. It was just a hunch,” Mumbo admitted. Iskall nodded. He ran a hand through his scraggly hair.

“It was me alright. One of the deals that is still ongoing is a ‘prank’ war between me and Grian. See, Grian likes challenges. He likes games.” Mumbo nodded, following. “He wants me dead, but he wants it to be a challenge. So, he devised a deal, and about…. seven years ago, I took it. We could only kill the other using a trap. Now,” Iskall said with a sigh. “There’s hardly any malice from my end. That trap he was in. He can’t die. Not that easy. I’ve seen Grian go up in flames one day and end up digging a pitfall trap the next. What Grian’s good at is tricking people, and you, Mumbo Jumbo, fell for it.”

It. It made a lot of sense. And it also meant that Grian hadn’t been in danger, but had been aware Mumbo was around, which made sense. The birds always seemed to be around before Grian. He…Mumbo felt like a fool.

“Mr. Mumbo Jumbo—or rather Bumbo, this is why you don’t make deals with Grian. No matter how good the deal seems, he’s always the winner,” Iskall said.

“Right…I’m…I think I see how I was duped now,” Mumbo muttered. Iskall chuckled.

“You’re still vey new here. Provided you live longer than a few months, maybe you’ll catch on. So, tell me Mumbo Jumbo. What information do you want?”

Mumbo Jumbo felt very silly now. Here was Iskall sitting in front of him who had been here eight years and was surviving like a man in a survivor show who must have tried everything to escape. And here he was about to ask about how to escape.

“I don’t know now,” Mumbo admitted. “I…I was going to ask how to get out.”

Iskall barked with laughter. He slapped his knee. “Mumbo, if I knew I wouldn’t be here.”

“I get that now,” Mumbo admitted to a chuckling Iskall. Iskall covered his mouth, stifling the chuckles, but shook his head.

“If you find a way, I’ll do whatever to help you. But, until then. My information and help comes with a price. Sorry, Mumbo, that’s just how it is. I need to survive and well, it’s hard,” Iskall said shrugging. “It’s gotten easier. Most of the things out there leave me alone. Most, anyway.” Iskall’s grin fell. A bit of pain edging his words. “I think. I think Mumbo,” Iskall said. “Part of escaping these woods is not to become apart of them. They’re almost alive in and of themselves. So, my best advice I can give to you is don’t become apart of them. You’re not going to go sprouting tree-limbs and leaves, but…you get what I mean?” Iskall asked.

Mumbo kind of did. He had a feeling it was not a good sign that the monsters of the woods did not consider Iskall worth their time anymore. “I get it. How much more information can I ask of you. If not much, I’m afraid I’ll have to depart. I do want to try to get home before dark.”

Iskall nodded. “Best for you if you do. How about one last thing. Go ahead and shoot,” Iskall said, sitting forward in the chair.

“Where do I get redstone?”

Iskall’s eyebrows creased, but he sucked in a breath and with great effort, relaxed. “I can give you a little bit, as a show of good faith. But mostly…if you want more…”

He turned to his shelf and leafed through a group of notebooks until he got to a green one. He flipped it open to the back and ripped out a page. He pulled a pencil from the binding of the notebook and flipped it to the first page. A rough map was there, full of impressions and erasure marks and lines and writing that had been clearly done and redone overtime. He copied it hastily onto the paper, and pointed out a few key points.

“This is my old map, but it’s still right. My newer ones use my home here as a center point. See—” he pointed to the square in the center labeled with a ‘C.’ There’s the cabin and this…” He drew a line across the paper and neatly labeled it 11km. “Is around the distance and direction to get to mineshaft. Southeast. I’d say about a three-hour walk if you’re not interrupted, but chances are you will be. There’s a lot more zombies near the exit to the mineshaft then the entrance, but there’s still a decent number.”

Iskall then pointed to a doorway shape east of the cabin. “There is the exit. Whatever you do, don’t go even a little bit south. Just walk home west to the cabin and avoid going south once you exit. Trust me. Even I nearly died with what’s near there. Don’t ask,” Iskall said firmly.

Mumbo didn’t. He followed the lines, memorizing it and trying to think about how it worked with what he’d seen. “The best measurement of where you’re going is how long it takes to get there. Sometimes…your surroundings will change. Best not question it,” Iskall said.

“There’s another exit,” Iskall circled a small area northwest on the map. “But it means you’d have traveled essentially 20km-ish underground.”

“That’s not possible. This place can’t be that big!” Mumbo argued.

“It is,” Iskall said.

“It can’t be. Someone would have noticed all the weirdness. There’d be questions about this area?” Mumbo pointed out.

“I’m pretty sure this property is 8,000 acres of absolute fuckery,” Iskall said.

He really hoped Iskall was wrong.

“Anyway, the other reason you don’t use that exit, other than the catacombs being a maze, deadly and full of shit, is it exits near Grian’s…home. Which is never a good thing to be near. Also, there’s probably a chance it’s trapped.”

Mumbo would take Iskall’s word for it.

“So, why is it a one-way entrance?” Mumbo asked.

“Grian’s trapped it.”

“What?”

Iskall sighed. He pushed the pencil back in the binding. “See. Grian trapped it years ago now. Five? Five or six maybe? Anyway. I can’t figure out how to dismantle the trap, but it’s only deadly if you try to exit the way you came in. Think of being smashed to death by something kind of deadly.” Mumbo’s stomach twisted unpleasantly. “While it’s an inconvenience, it’s habit for me now. When I was still fledgling to making traps, I got used to just avoiding Grian’s traps entirely. Now, well. I’m pretty stocked up on redstone for what I need it for. I’m willing to part with a jar full, but you’ll be on your own with getting more.”

Iskall handed Mumbo a mason jar full of redstone and the paper he hastily sketched a very undetailed map with the entrance and exits to the catacombs and mineshaft. It was not nearly enough to use as a way to not get lost in the woods.

“If you go down the mineshaft and get a good pickaxe or chisel if you don’t want to loot a pickaxe off the many skeletons in there, then you can get a good amount of redstone dust from the walls. You’ll recognize the redstone in its natural form. The only issue is…well. That cave of redstone is in the center of the catacombs. The heart of it, if you will. And there’s zombies. And other things down there. I think I spend…two weeks down there at a time? Bring plenty of food and water.”

Mumbo was starting to feel less and less ready and prepared for this all. Iskall just clapped him on the shoulder. “It’ll be sunset soon. Best get going Mumbo. It was nice meeting you.”

“Same,” Mumbo muttered weakly.

And he did leave. Redstone torch in one hand, mason jar of redstone tucked under his arm in the other. He was…winded. Mentally. After all he had learned how could he not be. If he wanted more redstone, he’d be venturing into what sounded like a literal hell. It made him queasy and cold sweat chilled him to the bone.

It was good fortune nothing attacked him as he returned to his cabin. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts he hardly noticed when he neared the cabin until he was unlocking the door without much thought, his brain on autopilot.

Bdubs greeted him warmly asking too many questions. All Mumbo could say was,

“We have a lot of rethinking to do about escaping here.”

…

Mumbo was mixed on what to do next. It was the next day and he was sitting at the dining table, mason jar of redstone in front of him along with the crude map on the notebook paper. 

He could try and settle the Joe Hills situation, although he wasn’t ready to jump into a pit of dog bones to discover the man anytime soon. Nothing about that situation seemed pleasant.

He could go attempt to get redstone. Mumbo really didn’t like the idea of going in there and not being able to get out easily. Who knows what he’d encounter?

He could go to the gas station, buy a pint of ice-cream and a bottle of booze and spend the next day staring blankly at a wall and trying to cope with his upcoming death.

Mumbo sighed. None of the options sounded good. Bdubs was as helpful as he could be, but he knew nothing more on how to solve the situation.

“I’d come with you in the catacombs, but like I said, the monsters still try to kill me again! Even though I’m a ghost! And it can kill me!” Bdubs said. He thought for a moment before an idea struck him. “We could wait until after the food delivery truck comes so we have as much supplies as possible. It comes in two days, since it comes biweekly on Saturday! I know that for sure!”

“Oh,” Mumbo thought. “That seemed like a good idea and it means he wouldn’t have to make any immediate plans. “That could be good. I wish it was simpler.” He ran his finger down the side of the mason jar, feeling an energy buzz from the redstone. “I could use the redstone I have as a guide in the catacombs.”

“That sounds splendid! Because then you can just get more!”

“And hopefully I have another bag and a place to store it all,” Mumbo said to himself. “I do have a gym bag somewhere.”

“Great planning! You can get more of it and then we’ll find a way out for you! That Iskall guy just hasn’t looked hard enough. There has to be a way out. Otherwise, how do the delivery people get in and out so easy?” Bdubs asked.

Mumbo raised an eyebrow. Bdubs raised a fair point. “That’s true. How do they?”

Bdubs’s smile fell suddenly, and his form dimmed into more of a shadow. “On second thought,” he said quieter. “Let’s not ask them. Bad idea. Bad idea, definitely bad.”

Mumbo eyed Bdubs curiously, who had his arms wrapped around himself. He was about to question the ghost, but Bdubs drifted to the next room, hastily muttering something to Mumbo about wanting to go try and open and read a book.

The delivery people were assumedly employees of Con Corp who could bypass the barrier. The barrier could be like a firewall. Let the safe things through, stop any other processes and applications from running. Or in this case, people from running.

Mumbo tapped his fingers on the mason jar and considered it. He was never good at lying or deceiving people, but when he had his heart set on it, he could do a wonderful job playing dumb. So, Mumbo would do that. No, no dangers in the woods? How are you doing delivery person? Please, tell me more about Con Corp?

At the end of it all, besides the monsters and besides the living woods, was Con Corp. So, if Mumbo wanted out, he had to figure what Con Corp wanted from him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bbbbbbbbbbbbb  
> Iskall Man.  
> Iskall rabid man.  
> Joe Dog Pit Hills.  
> b.  
> Gas Station Jack style approach to 'that detail that doesn't align? Oh. Or does it...? Haha jk...unless....."


	5. Falling is flying but without wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violence/bloodshed this chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, because this and a few of my other stories are getting a fair amount of comments, I’ll come out of the woodwork to say: I try not to respond to comments, because I fear any sort of influence of being known. I appreciate any comments, I just don’t do well with talking directly to people.

Chapter 5:

Falling is flying but without wings

_“The Doctor’s Tip #15: Tip your delivery man. He’s likely the closest thing to human here. You aren’t human.”_

He’s been here 14 days and he’s already a changed man. Mumbo is sitting on the porch waiting for the delivery truck that he knows will come. The last few days had been filled with planning.

Mumbo was going to find a way out, even if Iskall had failed. There had to be something Iskall was missing.

Bdubs and Mumbo together made a list of all the things they knew about this place.

  1. This is Con Corp’s fault.
  2. The woods are dangerous
  3. You can’t leave.
  4. Bdubs is a fantastic helper and friend 
    1. (Mumbo wasn’t sure that was relevant but Bdubs assured him it was)
  5. Redstone wards off some of the monsters.
  6. The Cabin repairs itself but isn’t going to protect you.
  7. Grian was probably going to eventually try and kill Mumbo 
    1. (“and you made a deal with him!” Bdubs emphasized)
  8. There’s a gas station possibly worked at by a werewolf (allegedly, Bdubs insisted) according to the notes Iskall left on the paper
  9. Iskall may be of some help 
    1. (“but by your description he sounds coocoo” Bdubs added)
  10. There’s a mine full of redstone, but it’s trapped to be one-way and has zombies or something 
    1. (“Did Iskall mention zombies or did we think of that?” Mumbo questioned. Bdubs thought about it. “I think we added the zombies. Why wouldn’t a big scary underground maze have monsters if everything else has monsters?” Bdubs pointed out and Mumbo decided it probably did have monsters.
  11. There’s a pit of bones that attracts imaginary/unreal dogs 
    1. (“you did say one of the clues to where Grian’s wing stealer, who must be Joe Hills, is dogs that aren’t real—this could be where he is!”)
  12. No one was going to come get Mumbo out of here



Mumbo came up with a brilliant plan that Bdubs was reluctant at first, but then fully approving of: Bdubs’ intangible ghostly form could be used to scout out a place. If danger came, Bdubs had the option to hide in a wall, unlike Mumbo. They both tentatively agreed the mines would be a good starting point for that.

But for now:

The next step on his agenda was playing dumb for the delivery drivers.

He wished he was. Mumbo never thought ignorance was true bliss until now. This was the most traumatizing two weeks of his life.

“I don’t think I’ll stay around when the delivery truck comes. I wouldn’t want them to see me and all,” Bdubs told him, resting against the side of the cabin.

“Why? Would that be bad?”

“No…yes?” Bdubs shifted. “Just…not sure the driver would behave all normal if he saw me, you know? No—wait. You don’t know. Never mind that, are you ready to grill them for info?” Bdubs’ nervous muttering fell off into a cheery tone and Mumbo nodded.

“Sure.”

“Right! We’ll get ‘em! Best of luck, Mumbo!” With that, Bdubs ducked back inside and just in time, as the delivery truck, the size of a Fed-ex, rolled to a stop where Mumbo’s truck used to be, both driver and passenger getting out. The men were shorter than Mumbo, with the wide-eyed one with dark hair a few inches shorter, and the other nearer to Mumbo’s height. The passenger side man was in odd dress, with a facemask, sunglasses on top of his head, and a very clear bullet-proof vest beneath his button up.

The driver on the other hand was in a polo and jeans, and a pair of suspenders rather than a belt. 

“Hello! Glad to see you’re up and active. Sometimes people just sleep in past us arriving,” said the passenger side man. He eyed Mumbo. His eyes were creased at the corner with crow’s feet and the smile looked genuine from what he could see of the man’s eyes, but there was a strain to it, an edge.

“Hello,” the driver greeted more laconically, unlatching the back of the truck. He seemed a tad unnerved, eyes darting around the woods.

“Hello,” Mumbo greeted. “Good morning to you both.”

“We’ll just be unloading things straight into the cellar; can you get it unlocked for us?” the facemask man asked. Mumbo nodded and unlatched the padlock, not missing the way the facemask man kept his eyes steadily locked on Mumbo with wary intent.

“No problem at all,” Mumbo told him, stepping aside as he pulled the lock off. The facemask man nodded and went to help the driver with unloading the truck. Mumbo knew who he was going to ask questions to first. As soon as the facemask man had grabbed a box easily and headed to the cellar, he stopped the driver.

“Excuse me, sorry to trouble you, but what’s your name?” Mumbo asked.

“Keralis,” the man said quietly. He avoided looking directly at Mumbo. “Pleased to meet you and all, but if you don’t mind, I really must get this unloaded.”

“Would you mind answering some questions about Con Corp? I’m just terribly curious. Haven’t been able to call them and all.” Mumbo asked.

If possible, Keralis’ eyes went wider. He clutched the box of dry food close and tapped on it nervously with his fingers. “It’d be a better to ask Swish—Xisuma.” He stepped around Mumbo and shot a look to Xisuma as he passed him that caused Xisuma’s eyes to go to Mumbo. He smiled regardless, wide still under the facemask.

“Sorry, I happen to overhear. You have questions about Con Corp?”

He figured playing dumb was out the window the way Xisuma’s eyes leveled him. Mumbo sighed, and backed off a little, loitering near the door to the cabin. “I was just hoping to learn more about Con Corp. Mr. Fan didn’t provide much I’m afraid.”

“Ah, he’s not very good at being transparent,” Xisuma hefted another box. “Con Corp’s a great company. A real innovative place. They’re also just into helping out people in rough spots, call it a little philanthropy,” he assured, heading down to the cellar.

“How long have you worked for Con Corp?”

“Nearly twenty years,” Xisuma said. Keralis exited the cellar, heading for a box and Mumbo turned the question to him.

“And you? How long have you worked for Con Corp?”

Keralis shrugged, his eyes going to the cabin door curiously, before back to Mumbo. “Erm…four years give or take,” Keralis said. He grabbed one of the last boxes, quickly going to the cellar to avoid questions from Mumbo. This wasn’t turning out as fruitful as he hoped. Xisuma came out and Mumbo sighed, toeing the dirt.

Xisuma eyed him, glanced towards the cellar and the truck then approached Mumbo, arms crossed.

“Mumbo, it’s best to just accept what situation you’re in,” Xisuma said levely.

“You know the name—”

“Con Corp knows a lot. Just know some of the people you talk with in the woods report back to Con Corp at the end of the day,” Xisuma said clearly.

“What do you mean accept this situation?” Mumbo asked, gesturing around him. “Accept death?”

“We can’t help you. You aren’t getting out of here,” Xisuma said quietly, ignoring the curious look Keralis gave him when he passed. “There’s no use getting us involved in your scruples.”

Mumbo thought about it. They knew perfectly well what the woods held. Which means Con Corp set him up for this. It was something he was sure was the truth, but now it was here and stated plainly he couldn’t help but feel an intense wave of anger.

“Why are you telling me this?” Mumbo questioned. He couldn’t keep the irritation and defeated anger out of his voice.

“I tell all the newcomers this…after…well, it doesn’t matter,” Xisuma glanced over his shoulder at Keralis who hadn’t heard, too busy grabbing the last box. “Not to you, it won’t. Don’t try to get information from us. We can’t help you,” he reiterated.

Mumbo shook his head. It was…morale breaking to hear people knew what strife and struggle was going on here and were purposely turning a blind eye. “I’m just trying to bloody get out! I know what this place has—if you could just sympathize—”

Xisuma frowned. Despite the height difference it felt as if he loomed over Mumbo with the penetrating stare.

“Mumbo, either follow the rules or you’ll conveniently be asleep next time we come,” Xisuma said, turning his back to Mumbo. Mumbo watched Keralis close the latch on the back of the truck and with a gut feeling of horror and quelling of upset snapped.

“Don’t either of you feel any guilt?”

Keralis spoke up in earnest now as Xisuma entered the passenger side.

“We’re no freer than you are, Mumbo.”

…

Mumbo sorted through the food after they left, Bdubs idling over in the corner, examining the stock. “A waste of my bloody time. We’re truly on our own,” Mumbo stated.

“I…might have guessed they’d be no help, but I was trying to be hopeful,” Bdubs said, and Mumbo caught the way his eyes stared off, fingers ghosting through the plastic wrapping on a bag of rice. Mumbo paused in his rationing of food, portioning off some for Iskall for his next trade, if needed, and turned to Bdubs.

“You’ve had a bad interaction with them before—the truck men?” Mumbo questioned.

“Delivery men, Mumbo,” Bdubs corrected. “And yes.”

“Yes, sorry. My brain’s a bit fuzzed.”

“It’s fine and all,” Bdubs said. He turned to Mumbo with his arms folded loosely, hands splayed open on his arms. “I…knew Keralis decently well.” Mumbo caught the way his head turned down and Mumbo raised an eyebrow. Bdubs shook his head.

“I’ll tell you after we solve this Joe Hills puzzle. It’s not going to be important really to you getting out of here. Just a bit of sad backstory of ole Bdubs,” Bdubs assured, shaking off Mumbo’s concerned look.

“You might be dead, but if you want to talk, I’m a pretty decent listener,” Mumbo offered.

Bdubs smiled. “Ah sweet-face, you’re too nice. Don’t worry, this ghost’s emotions have become a little sturdier after death.”

“Right. Now that the Con Corp delivery men avenue is out of the way, I think I’ll go gather a few more supplies. I think if we’re going to split up—I should explore the dog portal and you the mines.”

Bdubs nodded. “I was thinking the same thing. I can always hide in the walls from the zombies and worst case just float up through the ground seeing as I’m a ghost and all. I can help you make a map. Bdubs has a good memory, I can just get a good mental map of all the dangers in the place!”

Mumbo chuckled nervously. “It’s not reassuring when you speak in third person.”

“Gah, no big deal,” Bdubs waved off. Mumbo shook his head, and through the supplies he had gathered into the duffle bag serving as his new backpack. He was hoping to gather a few more supplies at the gas station. Mumbo was sure he’d seen they sell a few tarps and maybe some rope.

“I’ll be back. Are you going to leave right now to the mines or wait until I get back?” Mumbo questioned. Bdubs looked stricken, and then nodded to himself.

“I think I’ll leave now. It’s been a while since I’ve been out in the woods, but I’ll go now while there’s plenty of daylight. If this is our final goodbye, well, good luck, Mumbo,” Bdubs said solemnly.

“I’ve seen enough horror movies,” Mumbo reassured, “I don’t think you’ve had a final character arc yet. After all, we didn’t get revenge on what killed you?” Mumbo joked. Bdubs’ face paled a bit and he chuckled too.

“We’ll see. Goodbye, Mumbo.”

“Goodbye and good luck,” Mumbo bade Bdubs goodbye as he disappeared out of the cellar and into presumably the woods above. It was somewhat daunting after the morale crushing morning and Bdubs disappearing to scout out the mines—he was alone.

Mumbo left the cellar and walked to the gas station.

He was mostly alone.

A little parrot was hopping from branch to branch, fluttering its wings occasionally to keep pace with Mumbo. Mumbo sighed. “Of course. He’s watching.” Mumbo half-heartedly whistled a tune to see if the parrot would mimic it. It did. It was semi-satisfying, even if the bird was a little spy of Grian’s. Mumbo wasn’t a musical genius, but he did like the little ditty he scrapped up. The parrot flew away the moment he approached the gas station and Mumbo entered it, noting the ringing bell as he entered.

Neither gas station clerk was at the counter, but he went on browsing. The gas station did sell tarps, and apparently rope. Convenient. Mumbo squat down to examine the prices—he really should start rationing his money. While he was down there, the door to the gas station refrigerator slammed open.

“Really Ren, what have I told you!” a female voice, False, was yelling.

“And what have I told you, False! It’s too risky,” Ren cautioned.

“Ren, my literal entire purpose of existence is to _kill_ those who betray others,” False stressed. “I cannot die.”

“It’s risky for me,” Ren corrected. “While you’re temporarily employed by Con Corp—well, you know how Sc—”

“I don’t care. I have other contracts to finish!” False argued. “If you try to stop me again, I swear to the nether, Ren.”

“But I’ll be in hot water with Con Corp!” Ren whined.

“And? Quit then—someone’s here.” False said suddenly, and Mumbo felt himself freeze. He quickly looked for something logically he could have been doing other than eavesdropping. He grabbed a pamphlet on nearby haunted places that was likely at least a decade old by the amount of dust on it.

Mumbo heard loud sniffing and then the two gas station clerks were standing in front of him. Ren’s glasses were down, his yellow eyes peering at Mumbo curiously. And False had her arms crossed, her form flickering ominously as she glared down at Mumbo.

“How much did you overhear?” Ren questioned.

Mumbo stood up and gestured to the pamphlet. “Just reading this. Tuned you both out.”

“Likely story,” Ren said. “I mean, it actually is—that’s a pretty good pamphlet. I’ve read it a few times—”

False cut him off. “We know you overheard us. Keep your mouth shut to anyone about what you heard and out of my way, or you’ll be in a grave outback,” False said and Mumbo wanted to retort who would he tell. He was trapped out here

Ren just looked between False and Mumbo with his hands raised. “I mean, look man. We don’t want a problem with you, you don’t want a problem with us.”

“Right,” Mumbo agreed. “I—who would I have told?”

False shook her head. “I’m off. Next time the truck comes, don’t stop me, Ren.” She left in a literal gust of wind, one moment she was there, the next gone.

“Wraiths,” Ren said with wave of his hand. He pushed his sunglasses up. “Always so dramatic. She’s a nice gal though. Falsey’s just a little too focused on her contracts.”

“Ah…” Mumbo hummed in faux understanding. He grabbed the tarp and rope. “I think I’ll be checking out now.”

“Right,” Ren said. As he rung Mumbo up, the mustached man ventured a query.

“Ren…are you trapped here?” Mumbo questioned. If it was true of the delivery men, why wouldn’t it be true of the gas station clerks.

“We’re all cogs trapped in the capitalist machine, my dude,” Ren assured him.

“No, not that,” Mumbo waved away, but Ren waved it right back. He slid the sunglasses down and stared into Mumbo’s soul.

“Yes, _that_ ,” Mumbo stared into Ren’s eyes and noticed a detail he should have probably caught onto by now. His eyes were those of a wolf’s. It means Iskall’s note was right or likely probable; Ren was a werewolf. “Do you think any of us are free from Con Corp’s grip, Mumbo? Are any of us ever free from some company’s grip? Isn’t that why you’re here? From one company’s iron grip to the next?”

Mumbo was flabbergasted and the blistering yellow eyes didn’t let up. They felt like they saw too much. “I…er…I…?

The sunglasses slid back up. “I looked you up Mumbo Jumbo when you lost your wallet.”

“Oh…”

“Your total’s 12.22.”

“Right,” Mumbo fumbled for his wallet and dished out a twenty which Ren gave him change for without comment. In the end, Mumbo was unnerved—not by Ren and False’s earlier discussion of a possible murder, but by how much Ren was aware of. It might be a bad idea to get on Ren’s bad side.

The walk back was quiet, even his parrot spy had decided it wasn’t worth its time. Instead, Mumbo was left to contemplate the information he had before him. False was going to kill someone. Someone who was likely one of the delivery men. Why? There were only two, Xisuma and Keralis. It made it a 50/50 chance who it could be.

Hm, Mumbo pondered it for a bit, but let it go. Everyone seemed to want to kill everyone here, and some had succeeded if Bdubs was anything to go by. Questioning who wanted to kill who would normally be a morally apt thing to do, but right now as long as they weren’t planning to kill him there was no reason to get into a huff about it.

When he made it back to the cabin, he decided for safe keeping—just in case he suffered a grisly death in the dog pit or if he lost everything—he wasn’t bringing his keys or wallet. There was no reason to after all. He needed his money desperately; it had dwindled down quickly. This cash was his only bartering resource left for the gas station. The funny thing was, he was sure that wasn’t what anyone in the woods would steal if he shoved it into a small corner in the cabin behind a cabinet.

If he died, he wanted there to be a chance his memory was left behind in the form of his wallet at least.

Just so _someone_ knew he existed.

It was a grim thought, but Mumbo was starting to realize unless he adapted a wild-man personality like Iskall or came up with a magnificent solution, he would become one of the many that must have died here.

With a good pair of jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, his bag of tools and tarps and rope and a steady resolution, Mumbo left the cabin and prepared to enter the dog pit.

…

The trip there was shorter than he thought it’d be. He came across nothing of note, other than a mess of branches on the ground and a fallen tree he must have missed before.

The dog bone pit was just as menacing as before. The inscriptions gave him a bad feeling and the site of endless bones of all kind covered in dirt and paw prints was not as reassuring as he thought it would be. A golden retriever sat on the dog pit, gnawing on a rubber bone, his tail thumping against the side of the pit. Unlike other dogs he hadn’t disappeared, instead his black eyes watched Mumbo curiously as he hesitantly pulled out the rope from the bag. He had gone camping a few times and been a scout as young child. He knew how to tie a good knot.

Still, he tied a few to be sure and then fastened a very unprofessional harness using his belt and another length of rope attached to the primary one. Curiously, he gave a tug on the rope attached to the pillar and hesitantly leaned away from it, seeing if it would hold his weight. It would.

It had been a month or two since he’d been a member of a gym and had a proper full weight set, but he wasn’t entirely useless at pulling himself up. He’d be able to climb the rope back up if needed. Hopefully, there was another way back up.

Mumbo glanced over the edge of the pit and made eye contact with the golden retriever which made no move to attack him. It instead continued gnawing on the rubber bone, holding it grasped between two paws covered in dirt. Mumbo swallowed his anxiety and wrapped the excess rope around one arm in loose loops, draped around one shoulder. His duffel bag was slung over the other shoulder. He only needed, for now, two meters worth of rope—he’d let more of the rope free if the pit wasn’t solid, which he had a feeling it would not be.

It wasn’t a far drop down into the pit of bones, but he was unwilling to jump down, even with the rope around him. Instead, he tightly gripped the ledge and lowered himself until his feet skimmed the surface of the bones.

Mumbo glanced to the golden retriever again. It made no move other than the wagging tail.

Mumbo let go of the ledge, hoping for solid-ish ground, instead it gave way beneath him, the bones immediately sliding to the side against his feet as he sunk further down. Mumbo gripped the rope tightly, preventing himself from getting much further then shin deep into the bones.

The golden retriever stopped chewing on the rubber bone and lifted its head to look at Mumbo. Mumbo sucked in a deep breath and hesitantly slackened his hands against the rope and sunk to his waist. All around him he could only feel the mix of the bones, rubber bones and even felt fashioned into the shape of bones. It wasn’t very comfortable. Dirt caked the bones and sifted between them. With the dirt came even a few bugs. A small spider crawled over a bone near his hip before vanishing further into the pile.

Against his feet he could still feel more bones and dirt. He didn’t have much room to move. Further down it was hard to shift around.

The golden retriever barked.

Mumbo startled and burned his hands on the rope as he slid down it a few centimeters, the bones around him rattling and clanking as he slipped further down. Mumbo tightened his grip, ignoring the burning sensation on his palms.

This was a death trap wasn’t it. Mumbo hesitantly attempted to pull himself up a few centimeters, and found he could, but it was hard without finding any solid surface for his feet. The golden retriever stood up.

Mumbo knew he had to make a decision and trust that this was a portal to somewhere else and not death.

He took one hand off the rope and let up on some of the rope around his arm, prepared to fall a few meters. He wrapped his left hand around the new starting point and braced himself for whatever came ahead. Mumbo let go with his right hand and sunk into the pit of bones.

He sucked in a breath as the bones and dirt crumbled around him and covered his shoulders, his chin and then his head. Mumbo felt like he was being buried alive. He nearly let go of the rope with his left hand, but instead he tightened his grip, closing his eyes to avoid getting dirt in them. His feet flailed against nothing, as bones scraped against his ankles and pushed against the soles of his shoes as he sunk further, and further.

The air grew earthy, the smell of the woodsy air being consumed by the smell of dirt, bones, rubber and a distinct wet dog smell. Mumbo felt dirt getting into his ears and squeezed his eyes tighter, his free hand slapping against bones as he sunk. His mouth was tightly shut, but dirt still wormed its way in, settling on his tongue and pushing against his gums. It was suffocating and he nearly felt relief when his feet hit dead air. Mumbo ended up having to let up on the rope more then he wanted to and let it burn against his left hand as he let himself fall another meter.

But he wasn’t out of the bones yet. There were still more. A particularly sharp bone was digging into his back and Mumbo let out a yelp and let go of more rope then intended. He free fell sharply before the rope wrapped around his arm caught and squeezed painfully into his shoulder and bicep.

He was free of the bones and dirt cascaded onto his face as he sucked in a breath. He tasted dirt, smelt dirt, felt dirt but beyond that he could smell an ozone-y smell, like a vast cavern underground. Mumbo opened his eyes and had to blink dirt out.

That was the last time he was ever going to think of dirt fondly.

He was dangling above a vast lake surrounded by trees. Above him was the pit of bones, appearing now as only a floating clump of bones and dirt held aloft by tree branches that stretched out from the ground. Despite the fact he knew this very well had to be underground, it looked and felt like sunlight was streaming through the surrounding tree branches.

Mumbo didn’t question it and adjusted his grip on the rope to be more comfortable, pulling his upper body up and glancing around the lake. There were dogs everywhere. All of varying breeds. Beyond the dogs there was land and what could be a path illuminated on either side by lanterns.

It looked inviting, and that scared Mumbo. He reluctantly lowered himself more until his feet were able to touch the water. He didn’t have enough rope to keep it on when he entered the water, so he reluctantly slipped off his belt he had fashioned the harness around and let himself drop entirely into the water.

It was freezing, and Mumbo tread water for a moment, taking a few gulps of air in to steady himself. None of the dogs looked towards him nor made any move to attack. All just playing doggy tag or lazing about among themselves. Some chewing on bones, some play fighting and some just drinking from the lake or playing in the water.

He adjusted the duffel bag on his back and hoped the redstone torch was fine in there. Mumbo hadn’t exactly prepared to be waterproof, and if it went out, well—he hoped he could fair his own.

Mumbo swam to the edge of the lake, eying the dogs warily as he dragged himself out once his feet could touch the ground.

None attacked still. Mumbo sighed and adjusted his clothes, which were not at all great for diving into water. He eyed the path illuminated by torches. Despite the appearance of daylight above, someone had taken extra care to light the path.

Where it led, well…

Mumbo sighed, shifted the bag on his back and pulled out the redstone torch. It was out.

Lovely.

Mumbo slid it back in and adjusted his bag to sit more comfortably on his back. He glanced back towards where his rope was, dangling in the middle of the lake. He’d come back. Mumbo would be fine. Mumbo followed the path.

It was a quiet path, only the sound of his wet shoes squelching with every step and his own breathing filled his ears. An occasional dog bark or whine would break the thud of his heartbeat in his ears, but otherwise, he was left to deal with the thoughts in his head. Most were:

_I’m wet, covered in dirt and highly uncomfortably._

_My shoes are ruined beyond belief from this._

_I wish I could be sitting in my old apartment dry and comfortable._

_I wish I could play video games again._

_I wish I could surf the internet._

_Goodness, oh my word, how I miss literally every day mundaneness, but no, here I am wandering around in an underground cavern, soaked in lake water and with dirt smeared across my face and I’m slightly cold and all this to get the wings of some horrible gremlin who wants to murder me, no this is perfectly well._

Mumbo stopped his mental woes and eyed the vines draped across the path. What lay beyond them? Danger? Death? Mumbo hesitantly, reached a hand out and parted the vines. He still couldn’t see properly beyond them, so he stepped into the sheet of vines. For a few moments, his sight was occupied by trying to bat aside the number of vines and claw his way free, but once he was out…

It was…beautiful.

It was an endless, or seemingly endless rolling plain, filled with small hills and what looked to be an endless number of dog houses and notably, a small modest log cabin sitting at the end of the path. The sky above was green, a soft hue that stretched endlessly into clouds and for all intents and purposes shouldn’t be there. A husky chasing a Yorkshire Terrier darted in front of him and Mumbo watched them until they vanished into a doggy jungle gym with dog-safe attractions.

It was like someone built a dog park and safe haven for dogs. Was this dog heaven? What was this?

“Welcome,” a voice said, and Mumbo glanced towards the cabin and spotted a man sitting on the porch, a dog sitting in his lap happily accepting head rubs. The man was exceedingly average, with messy brown hair down to his chin and a pair of square glasses. He looked at Mumbo and gave a small wave.

“Hello?” Mumbo greeted hesitantly. He walked over to the man, but kept his distance, unwilling to go much further.

“Ah, if it isn’t the newest victim to the woods, the mustached man himself,” the man greeted. He stood and offered a hand. “Joe Hills, at your service.”

Mumbo hesitated but shook Joe’s hand in greeting. The man had a firm handshake and felt warm, but also felt like his skin was charged, like a piece of machinery running solid and firm. “What? Where is this place?” Mumbo questioned.

Joe laughed, and he gestured for Mumbo to follow as he headed towards a small street of sorts, with a collection of feeding areas for dogs and crates constantly releasing new toys for the dogs. A machine was throwing balls for the dogs. It was awe inspiring, if not a little off by the complete lack of humans. The machines didn’t have the elegance and perfection of someone who knew how to engineer them. They were roughly put together, but with clear care and love.

“A retreat, of sorts. For the dogs, not us. A therapy for them. A cure,” Joe listed. The dog’s paid them no-mind, too consumed with their lives to pay attention.

“From what?” Mumbo questioned. “What do you mean?” He minded the dogs as they ran past, but as one dog proved—they passed through him entirely. It was as if he wasn’t entirely there—or they weren’t.

“From their old god,” Joe said. “But that’s not important. Consider me a dog catcher—I’m sure you’ve seen what happens to dog’s that aren’t caught?” Joe said, and he picked up a puppy that was running past and it squirmed in his hands, yapping.

“No?” Mumbo questioned, and Joe waved his hand over the puppy and it’s face split into something similar to the hideous monster he remembered, its brown fur turning into patchy black scales and its snout splitting into four petals that peeled back to open to a spinning row of teeth. Mumbo cringed away, and Joe waved his hand over the puppy again and it returned to normal. He set it down and it ran off again. “Oh…”

“Yes. I like dogs more like this,” Joe said. “The one you met; I’ve caught her since then. She’s a little rascal of Chihuahua. But there’s so many of them. Some not quite as…evolved as those ones,” Joe said. He sounded a bit bitter, but he just came to a stop at another small pond fenced off with flowers growing near it. No dog crossed the fence, even as Joe opened it for them to enter. “Regardless, my task will never be done. There’s always more dogs to catch.”

“I…er…got your note. I wanted to talk about that actually,” Mumbo said, and Joe cast a look over at him, as he motioned to a bench near the pond and sat down on it, crossing a leg over his knee. Mumbo sat beside him hesitantly.

They sat in silence for a moment, and then Joe said, “Do you ever stop and think why someone would take someone’s wings?”

Mumbo glanced at him, but Joe’s face was unreadable. Always wearing a small warm, smile. His eyes were crinkled at the edges with crows’ feet. There was no hint of malice from him.

“…No,” Mumbo said slowly. “I didn’t.”

“Well,” Joe gestured to the small sanctuary of the pond around them. “We’re in a peaceful place. Stop and think about it for a moment.” Mumbo almost scoffed incredulously, but Joe did seem genuinely friendly. So, he swallowed down the comments about, “well my life depends on the wings” and thought about it earnestly.

Why would someone take Grian’s wings?

 _He’s a menace now—now imagine he can fly_.

Mumbo could see plenty of reasons. If Grian had wings before, he must have been more of an issue and problem for anyone trying to escape his blood thirsty ways. Was he supposed to answer Joe? Was it a question?

“They’d do it to hinder someone—hinder Grian. Make him less of a threat?” Mumbo questioned out loud, and Joe hummed in thought.

“I think they might too, Mumbo,” Joe said and stared into the water. His gaze lingered on a lily pad as he spun something around his fingers. “But they’d also do it to increase their survival odds. These wings…they become a commodity, as everything does with capitalism,” Joe said with a soft sigh. “The danger of holding them is much…for everyone _else._ But I,” Joe turned to look at Mumbo, his grin growing. “I have this little slice of heaven pie to hide them in. You could look for all your life and never find them.”

Mumbo thought about it and glanced at the water. If they’re a commodity, they need to be bought. “So, I need to buy them from you? I don’t have much cash.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Mumbo. I don’t need cash. You might have something else I want, hm?” Joe questioned. He spun what now Mumbo saw was a small intricate coin in his fingers. It was copper and marked with scratches and a design he couldn’t quite see.

“…a favor?” Mumbo hated asking.

 _Not another deal_.

“Good, good. You’ve learned how it’s done here,” Joe confirmed. “See, I catch dogs, as you’ve likely gathered from me telling you. It’s good for them to be here…but there’s one dog I can’t catch,” and Mumbo cringed. Oh, god. Don’t tell him it’s some large beast that’s so…he shuddered to think of trying to wrangle in a large beast. “And I feel rather like a lame dog catcher if I can’t catch every dog at least once. I’ll even let the dog free, I just want him to know what awaits him if he keeps on his current path,” Joe said.

That sounded incredibly personal and not at all like a beast.

“Do…what is this dog?” Mumbo questioned.

“You might even know the dog. At least every person to enter the woods has met him once,” Joe assured. He stopped spinning the coin and flipped it in his hand. He closed his fingers around it and then, “His name is Ren.”

 _Oh no_.

“Most of the time he’s not a dog, but one night of the month, he is! And well,” Joe ducked his head and chuckled. “It’s a little achievement I need to feel…accomplished. Don’t worry about moral woes. I’m no slayer of dogs. Just a hunter. When he transforms back, I’ll release him back to his mournful gas station life.” Mumbo shifted in the seat, the chill of his water-logged clothes digging into his skin. “What I need you to do, Mumbo, my newest dearest friend…Is lure him into the pit of bones you came through that night.”

_Oh no._

“It should be easy. He’s a rabid dog craving human flesh during the full moon,” Joe happily told him.

 _Oh, my word no_.

“That sounds dreadful,” Mumbo muttered, aghast.

“I paid my own price to get these wings from the original stealer, so fair’s fair,” Joe Hills said. “Although,” Joe stood up, gesturing for Mumbo to do the same, “the choice is still on the table.” Joe stretched, cracking his back. “You could not involve yourself. Don’t take the deals that thread you, that leave you inured to the woods.”

“I’m not sure it’s that easy,” Mumbo muttered, standing up.

“Good fortunes to you, Mumbo, then. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon,” Joe said, and he headed back to his cabin, leaving Mumbo to figure that the only way back to the surface was up the rope.

It only took him another hour or two to get back up the rope. For a moment he thought he’d never get out of the pit of bones. He swallowed mouthfuls of dirt and felt his insides squeezed from the lack of air before a hand broke free. Mumbo pulled himself up the rest of the way, his arms shaking and his abs burning with exertion.

When he could grip that final ledge he did, pulling himself up over the edge and onto the dirty stone and just sucking in breath after breath until he could feel all the burning pain across his muscles and the blisters on his hands from the rope.

Only then did he sit up and take inventory of himself. He was in one piece and in desperate need of a shower. His bag was in-tact, but his belt was sacrificed to the rope which he left coiled up and tied to the pillar as he stumbled back to the cabin, resting his hands on top of his head to keep the blood from running into them.

If something wanted him dead, he’d have been easy picking, but he remained relatively unbothered, only his thoughts keeping him company. Mumbo managed to get into the cabin before collapsing, lazily tugging off garments and scratching dirt off his face as he glanced at his phone he left at the cabin, charging idly. In the middle of the woods with no help for calling anyone and without the internet, he’d started leaving his phone behind more and more, but now as he stared at its familiar screen he found his heart stopping.

That can’t be right.

Mumbo sat up, sitting on the couch in his boxers and t-shirt, staring at the display screen.

At least a day had passed.

Maybe more, but he knew it hadn’t been a Sunday when he left. He opened the calendar app on his phone and found the day he’d marked as the day the delivery day would come, 14 days from when he first came here on September 28. When he had set out for the bone pit it had been October 11.

Now.

Now it was October 13.

Mumbo swallowed. He had lost time while in the bone pit. Where was Bdubs? Had he come back while Mumbo was gone and thought him dead? Was he still down in the mines? Was he gone?

Two whole days. It had felt only like hours!

Mumbo shook his head and also saw another disturbing detail.

He could not slack today off. He couldn’t even consider sleeping for a long night.

It was a full moon tonight and if Ren was a werewolf and worked like a werewolf…It meant he had to somehow capture him. Tonight. Or somehow trick him into falling into the pit.

…

Mumbo had gotten cleaned up and drank a good bit of green tea that’d been dropped off from the delivery truck. It gave him the energy he needed to relight the redstone torch and prepare to find a way to lure Ren into a hole. How? How was he supposed to do this?

He only had hours until night to plan. He added more honey to his tea and sat back down on the couch and swallowed the tea, even as it burned down his throat. There was no way to do this. His arms were sore, his eyes heavy—he had no weapon and no idea what he was up against.

He needed days to plan. He needed to know what a werewolf looked like. He didn’t know what this even entailed! Mumbo groaned, pressing his palms into his eyes. What did he do?

Bdubs wasn’t even around to ask. He had hoped the ghost might appear and provide him some company and maybe a useful tip or two, but the ghost was still gone.

Did he just go to the gas station and ask Ren?

 _Would it trouble you so terribly to jump in the dog pit when you turn into a wolf?_ _It would do me a great deal of help._

Mumbo didn’t like Plan A, which was the only plan he had.

Plan A: Wait until night and lollygag about until Ren appeared or really any werewolf, because how was he supposed to know what he looked like? What if there were multiple werewolves? Well, he supposed he’d just have to get lucky. He’d lollygag about and then some werewolf slower than him would try and he supposed rip his heart out. Mumbo would politely jog over to the pit and the wolf with all its animal-brain-intelligence would just happily fall into the pit and he’d be good.

But Mumbo was sure Plan A would not work. No program could function without a solid set of code behind it. He couldn’t just build this entire process on “if-else” statements. _If_ the werewolf is Ren and _if_ it just does him a solid and falls into the pit. _Else_ Mumbo would…

Be viciously eaten alive.

Mumbo sighed into his tea.

He did not want to be eaten alive.

Plan B: He go to the gas station and ask Ren to simply go into the pit.

Plan C: Mumbo could give up on the wings entirely and hope Grian never tried to collect on the first deal. He very much did not want to be killed.

Plan D: Hide in the cellar and sip tea and hope this all passes without his action.

No, no. None of those would do. He didn’t want Ren to avoid him entirely, which he was sure telling him he planned to throw him into a pit would cause. Plan C didn’t do much good, because Grian seemed of the sort to keep on bothering him until he got bored. While Mumbo hadn’t seen Grian for a few days now, that did not mean he was safe. Instead, he was rather sure Grian was planning.

For what?

Mumbo didn’t want to know.

Plan D was wishful thinking, he needed proper plans.

Mumbo drummed his fingers against the cup and looked outside at the lowering afternoon sun. There had to be something other than Plan A. Some other way. He needed to survey the pit. There had to be a way to get Ren in the pit with what he had.

No contest of brute strength would likely succeed. Mumbo did not have the weapon or the energy to push a werewolf into a pit. Surely not. Mumbo took a sip of tea.

He’d have to trick the werewolf.

But how?

How intelligent was Ren as a wolf?

_My word. I’m missing so many details._

A stupid idea crossed Mumbo’s mind. He considered it. He needed Ren to follow him and the easiest way to do that was to give him a reason to other then possibly wanting to eat him. What if he stole something from Ren?

What could he steal? How would he steal it? What was important to Ren?

Those sunglasses seemed important.

But they were on his face.

Was Mumbo supposed to just go on a jaunt to the gas station, pop in, wave hello and the pluck them off his face and make a run for it?

Hopeless. Mumbo set the tea down and added the plan to the list.

Plan E:

Steal Ren’s sunglasses and run to the pit. Maybe it’s as easy as throwing the sunglasses over the edge and Ren following.

No, he needed more tact. Or else he was going to get himself killed. Mumbo steepled his fingers together and rested his head on them. What to do? Mumbo stood up and wandered around the cabin, looking at his belongings for any hint to how to solve this issue.

A page on werewolves and how they worked would be useful.

Was it too late to hope he could find Iskall and question him?

Yes. It’d take a good couple hours to get there and then back and how was Mumbo supposed to be prepared. What if he learned nothing?

Mumbo scratched at his mustache, his anxiety ticking higher as he paced the ground. What to do? What to do?

Plan A was still the only solid plan he knew he could execute.

The hours ticked on. Mumbo tied his tennis shoes tight; he stretched his arms out and he made sure he could jog comfortably in jeans. It’d feel silly to not be wearing something thick on his legs when running from a possibly blood thirsty beast. Shorts just wouldn’t do.

He took the redstone torch out with him and stood on the porch of the cabin, gazing out over the trees at the rising full moon and as he stood there on the precipice of what would be a night of danger he had yet to face or know of, he heard the bone chilling howl deep within the woods of a werewolf.

Mumbo gripped the torch tight.

It was time.

Ready or not.

He was going to bait a werewolf into a hole to get him some damn wings.

As exciting as that prospect was and the distant howls of a werewolf yet unseen were. He had a decent amount of time to walk to the dog pit and stand around, his heart tight in his chest, thumping rhythmically and his throat clenched with worry as he looked around himself, unsure about exactly how this would work.

He assumed the werewolf ate people, and he was a person, so why did it have to take so long. Where was the werewolf? Mumbo didn’t want to stray from the pit into the darkness to be attacked by another monster. That was already a risk and he only had the torch to aid him in terms of light and defense.

Not many creatures lurked near the pit. A zombie approached the pavilion and the harshly engraved stone pillars and seemed put off. It wandered away instead, sparing Mumbo no shortage of wishful hungry glances.

But Mumbo didn’t move from the safety and danger of the stone pillars. While they kept everything at bay, he needed a werewolf to come tumbling out. The other possibility is he’d have to go find the werewolf and lure him to this point and hope.

So many things needed to go right for a plan built on nothing.

A voice startled him.

“RenTheDog. RenTheDog,” a parrot squawked. It was sitting on a low branch near the stone pillars. It was spying on him and another bird settled near it, the notes of high-low-high ringing out.

_High-low-high. High-low-high._

Mumbo sighed. Lovely. Grian. He had no idea where the cryptid was, but he wasn’t surprised when he dropped out of a tree to the side of Mumbo, black eyes glittering in the full moon and a smarmy grin on his face. He had something strapped to his back, but what it was Mumbo couldn’t see.

“I see you’ve acquainted yourself with Joe Hills,” Grian chirped, his eyes going to the pit.

“I have,” Mumbo said stiffly.

“Hm,” Grian seemed delighted. “Where are my wings, Mumbie Jumbie?”

“I’m still in the process of getting them,” Mumbo said, and glanced over at Grian who just kept the damned smile on his face, pacing around the tree his birds were in, staying clear of the pillars as well.

“Best get them soon.”

“That’s the plan.”

“Ren’s somewhere nearby,” Grian commented. He walked around the tree the parrot was in as it repeated. “RenTheDog. RenTheDog.” Mumbo eyed Grian suspiciously.

“Why are you here?” Mumbo questioned and Grian paused his circling of his tree, his hand still resting on the bark. He giggled.

“Isn’t it obvious? Ren’s going to try and kill you, and I have a deal to fulfill, Mumbo,” Grian said and continued his circling. “Then it’ll be best you have my wings.”

The “or else” went unspoken, but Mumbo realized how bad it was to have Grian nearby. “Go away. I won’t need your help,” Mumbo said firmly. The black-eyed gremlin eyed him, leaning against the tree and staring at him unnervingly.

“If you do, Mumbo,” Grian promised.

“I won’t.”

“When you do,” Grian said.

“I won’t.”

“I’ll still be near,” Grian said, and he grabbed a hold of the low branch his birds were on and pulled himself up, before vanishing into the dark, his red jumper disappearing into the tree branches as his limbs with an unnatural grace and fluidity not belonging to humans disappeared. It wasn’t even cat-like or something distinctly natural, it felt like an avant-garde animation.

Another howl shook Mumbo out of his trance, and he tore his eyes from the tree Grian disappeared into. There was no mistaking how close the werewolf was. He imagined all sorts of ways it could look. Maybe it was the 80’s man wolf, or the grisly bear esque large wolf commonly used in modern portrayals, maybe it was a normal looking wolf or maybe—

A crack. The sound of a small branch being broken under the weight of something. The rustling of leaves. Of something coming.

Mumbo felt his muscles lock, adrenaline pumping under the surface ready to flee and he saw first the glowing yellow eyes before the rest slunk by as it circled, passing outside the area lit by the redstone torch. It was a brown wolf with the familiar yellow eyes Ren had. Despite the fear biting into him, part of him was a bit underwhelmed.

_Oh, it is just a brown wolf. After what “dogs” were I kind of expected a bit more._

Mumbo waited for the wolf to make a move, but it continued pacing outside the stone pillars, unwilling to go any closer. He waited. And waited. And he even sat down for a bit, hoping that vulnerability would draw the wolf out.

It didn’t.

The wolf was here. It was likely Ren. But it wasn’t going anywhere near the pit.

Quick now. The night will only last so long, Mumbo needed the wolf to get closer to the pit. What did he have to do that with?

There was the rope leading into the pit of bones, still dropped in a pile near the edge of the pit from where he’d climbed up. But Mumbo did not have the magical grace to swing a rope and wrap it around a wolf and tug it into a pit. He doubted many did.

He doubted a bone would lure the wolf closer. Something had to. This wolf was drawn to humans. And unless Grian was lying, it likely wanted to eat him or at least kill him.

So, he was the only bait. He just needed to convince the wolf he was worth crossing the invisible line that was the space between the stone pillars and the woods. Mumbo quickly thought of all the ways. There was the barbaric idea. Cut his hand with a rock and hope the wolf was drawn to the smell of blood. There was the taunting idea. To walk outside the pillars and hope to draw it near. There was the—

Mumbo was still too busy thinking when the wolf grabbed a hold of his ankle and tugged, dragging him outside the stone pillars. Mumbo yelped, and reflexively swung the redstone torch against the wolf. It didn’t burn it, but it drew back from the light and leaped at Mumbo where he still lay. He slapped the redstone torch against the wolf’s snout as it came close to his chest, and hastily scrambled to his feet.

Mumbo was bleeding now. His ankle burned with pain and blood was soaking into his jeans and he had scratched his cheek when he hit the ground. Mumbo didn’t have much time to take in his injuries as Ren lunged again. He attacked from the side, biting into Mumbo’s calf and this time didn’t let go immediately when Mumbo hit him. It took three hits with the redstone torch, and this time Ren’s attack came again much sooner.

Ren had put himself between Mumbo and the stone pillars. If he wanted Ren to go into the pit, he’d either have to—

Mumbo’s thoughts were cut off when Ren bit into his wrist holding the redstone torch and he dropped it unwillingly, hitting the wolf with his free arm until it let go.

_Stop thinking, Mumbo Jumbo. Stop thinking. Stop thinking. Stop._

Mumbo was bit again. And he reacted without thought, this time grabbing the wolf. He didn’t let go of the scruff of fur and skin where he grabbed the wolf, even as its teeth dug into his skin. He dragged the wolf with him back into the stone pillars and as it began to snap and twist he grabbed onto it with his bloody hand, blood dripping down from his wrist and into the dog’s fur as he hauled the wolf cumbersomely towards the pit and as its claws dug into his chest, his legs, his arms he threw the wolf with all his desperation into the pit.

The wolf skidded against the ground, colliding with the rope coiled on the ground and pushing that into the pit with it as it fell in and Mumbo fell to his knees, breathing heavily. He was scratched up and bloody, but alive and he’d succeeded into getting the wolf into the pit.

In the end. By just brainlessly fighting the wolf.

 _My word, that was awful_.

He was still kneeling there when he heard a growl and scratching from the pit. Mumbo looked in horror to see a paw on the edge of the pit. Yellow eyes peeked over the edge a rope gripped between a bared snout with sharp teeth ready to rip into him. It scratched again and got its other paw on the edge.

 _Oh no. Nononononono._ Mumbo was too winded too do much more than scramble back, grabbing the redstone torch he’d dropped and holding it desperately out with his less-scathed left arm when a flash of red cut between him and the wolf. Mumbo’s heart was in his ears, the sound not unlike the last dredges of a dying machine thumping against its casing.

The flash of red brought with it a flash of silver and Mumbo heard a loud yelp and saw the rope disappear over the edge of the pit. His blurred vision cleared as Mumbo dragged a hand across his eyes and realized he had started crying from fear. This day was doing so much to him. With his vision cleared of tears he could see what had saved him.

Grian stood, pulling the axe from the ground. He’d cut the rope Ren had been clinging to and successfully saved Mumbo from Ren. His black eyes turned to Mumbo as he rested the axe on his shoulder.

Mumbo’s heart was in his throat. At first, relief swept him, and he nearly collapsed. Wanting nothing more than a moment to let exhaustion have its voice and then he’d stand and tend to his injuries. But he remembered the crucial detail Grian was politely letting him have a chance to get to.

“Come off it. I told you I’m in the process of getting your wings,” Mumbo said, somewhat in disbelief.

Grian squat down in front of him, resting on the balls of his feet as he grinned at Mumbo. The axe still sat on his shoulder and the parrot from earlier, Polly, landed on his bird nest of hair.

“Mumbo, Mumbo, Mumbo Jumboloni…”

“Grian—”

“I’ll give you a 5 second head start,” Grian said. “As soon as you stand, your timer starts.”

Mumbo felt a mixture of aghast horror, utter disbelief and the wave of denial puttering out into a waterfall of numb acceptance. He was so tired. And so injured. And the redstone torch between them was not enough to surely stop Grian’s axe.

“Ha,” Mumbo laughed weakly. He wiped at his eyes again and stared at the gremlin. “All-right. All-right! Suppose if I lay here for all eternity…”

“I’d eventually get bored,” Grian said. His voice had no edge. No malice. It was almost laughable.

“What’d you do if you got bored?” Mumbo questioned.

“Kill you.”

“Right,” Mumbo braced himself to stand, finding his feet beneath him. He didn’t want to run, but he didn’t want to die. His jeans scraped against the bites on his legs as he drew his leg beneath him. His arms stung with bites, with exertion, with rope-burns and bruises. All the while, Grian’s eyes watched him. Void of anything. No pity, no hatred—if anything a delightful little interest.

For him it was a game. And Mumbo was just part of it. Mumbo felt the dryness in his mouth and part of him wanted to plead with the gremlin.

“Be logical,” Mumbo said. It almost felt like a beggar at his execution, but Grian just laughed. “I can’t get your wings if you—I almost have them. I just need to go get them from Joe Hills.”

“That’s no fun,” Grian said. “Best you stand. You look like you might pass out if you don’t.”

Mumbo swallowed dryly, and stood, redstone torch gripped tightly in his hand.


	6. Reanimated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chappie, violent chapter.

Chapter 6:

Reanimated

_"The Doctor's Tip #10: If you get the chance to kill Grian, take it for me. I didn't. I regret it."_

“Five.”

Mumbo ran. The redstone torch only illuminated so much, but he could not think. He just blindly needed to get away from the thing about to try and kill him. He cast one last look behind him to see Grian stand, his axe still resting on his shoulder.

Those black eyes reflected the light of the moon and glowed outwards into the woods.

“Four,” Grian called out.

Mumbo’s legs and lungs were already burning. He’d already had to expend so much energy. The rope. The fight with Ren. This! He did not know where he was going, only that he needed to go. “Three!” Here, nothing could possibly aid him. His mind so clouded by blind panic and fatigue. “Two!”

Mumbo slapped into a tree and grabbed it to steady himself and took off again, unwittingly glancing behind himself, but there was no light where Grian was to properly see him anymore. Just. Trees. Long and dark reaching above him into the canopy.

“One!”

His voice sounded like it was hitting all those trees and echoing around Mumbo. Tormenting his ears.

“Ready or not. Here I come!”

No, _no, no, no, no!_ Mumbo hardly could keep his footing and his face and arms took the brunt of the scratches as he barreled into the branches and dips in the ground, his feet slipping on slopes, sliding backwards on small hills. His ankles protested the uneven ground he tore through recklessly.

There was whistling. Clearly Grian’s. Who else? Upbeat and already nearby. Mumbo tripped and caught himself before his face hit the ground but could not stand up fast enough from the tree roots, he lay on. His mind was still reeling when he heard the whoosh of air and laughter. Mumbo rolled onto his back and looked up just to see Grian swing the axe down and get it stuck in the tree roots where Mumbo’s head had just been.

Grian didn’t give him time to get up. He planted his foot on Mumbo’s arm and he nearly dropped the redstone torch in his hand. No, Grian was getting ballsy. Risking putting himself near the redstone to harm Mumbo. Grian pushed his foot painfully into Mumbo’s arm, bracing himself to pull out the stuck axe. “Another head for my wall if you can’t get away, Mumbo!” Grian assured him.

Mumbo kicked Grian in the kneecap and freed his arm, just as Grian tugged the axe free. Bloody and now more bruised than ever, Mumbo glanced around before running. Riverbank. Right side of it, but crossing it’d be further away. He had been heading deeper into the woods. He needed to head back where he came from.

Grian used the axe to stand back up as it clawed through the dirt. He gripped the axe tightly in his right hand and swiped at Mumbo. His swipe missed, but Grian was close enough Mumbo could do something insanely stupid.

He tried punching Grian.

Grian’s skin was at least human enough, it was a satisfyingly hard hit and Grian went down with it, but not without attempting to take Mumbo with him. He gripped Mumbo’s arm with his left one and pulled as he fell backwards, and if it hadn’t been for their height difference Grian likely would have tugged him down.

Thankfully, the man was short, and Mumbo dislodged him. Grian fell on his back with a loud bark of laughter, gripping the axe handle in both hands now and he stared up at Mumbo. Those black eyes glittered.

“A man after my own dear heart,” he kicked at Mumbo’s ankle. “I do love a fight.”

Mumbo dodged, but he stumbled on the same damn tree root from earlier. Grian leapt upon his moment of weakness to scramble onto his hands and knees and tackle Mumbo at the legs. Mumbo’s back hit the tree and he fell against it. Grian’s grip on the axe was light, but he couldn’t pull it free with his hands in time before Grian scuttled backwards.

Mumbo leaned against the tree and got back to his feet, clutching the redstone torch tightly in his arms and saw Grian straightening, swinging the axe over his shoulder in preparation. He swung it at Mumbo’s neck and Mumbo dove down and to the side, nearly hitting the ground all over again. His balance steadied, and his fingertips graced the ground as he took off running. His clothes tore on the rough merciless tree that threw him into this fight in the first place.

The cabin. He needed to get to the cabin. It was his only chance.

“Mumboooo,” Grian taunted.

“Oh, sod off,” Mumbo huffed. Forward. _Forward._ It didn’t feel fast enough. He didn’t even know if he was going to make it to the cabin. Where was the cabin? It was all dark looming trees. Look to his side. Trees. Look up. Tree branches and the full moon. Look to the other side. More trees. Look forward. Still trees. Branches didn’t appear until the last moment in the dim light of the redstone and full moon, and he was slowed by their clawing grip on him. It was like he constantly had to be on high alert to just dodge the tree branches themselves, let alone listen to see if Grian was near again.

He hadn’t heard the gremlin’s deranged giggle for a solid minute, and he was getting a bad feeling. It was hard to hear over the hammering of his heart and his heavy breathing, but he was almost sure he heard leaves rustling.

But it was getting drowned out.

His heavy breaths in and out were the first to go over the bird calls. A squawking of every bird alive in the woods, calling out their harshest notes. Over. And Over. His heart was deaf in his ears over the sounds. No patterns or symphony. Just deafening noise that dazed him as he took it in. As his ears began to ring and a blinding headache began at his ears, Mumbo caught himself slowing down and covering his ears as if he could possibly drown out the fortissimo cacophony.

He couldn’t have possibly heard Grian and he didn’t.

He came from above and as the axe hit his shoulder he swept his arms out to stop the unknown attacker and heard nothing outside the birds, but saw Grian wince as the torch burned into the man’s chest and shoulder and he released the axe as they both staggered away, wounded. The axe came dislodged the moment Grian let go, but it didn’t mean there wasn’t blood, pooling into the fabric of Mumbo’s shirt and running down his chest. He grasped his wound, but he couldn’t stop the blood now, and all he did now was get his hand wet with it. His arm felt burdened to keep holding the torch, but he had no other options.

Mumbo looked across the small space to see Grian hunched over, clutching his shoulder and chest. Mumbo straightened and forced his reluctant hand to let go of his wound and reach for the axe on the ground now. He wasn’t letting Grian get it back. At least. Not easily.

His ears were still ringing when Grian finally spoke. “Oh, now look what you’ve done!” The gremlin moved aside his jumper to examine the wound on his shoulder. Where his skin had been was now a patch of gray tinged at the edges with brown and violet. The gray twisted unnaturally as Grian flexed his shoulder, and Mumbo now saw it wasn’t just gray, but shades of light purple and it wasn’t a flat surface, but tightly interwoven bands that looked vaguely plant-like.

The redstone fire hadn’t burned him in the normal sense, but it seemed to have destroyed his vaguely human façade.

“I’ve done?” Mumbo scoffed. “Look what you’ve done!” He gestured with his hand to his bloody shoulder as he took another step towards the axe on the ground, keeping his eyes on Grian the entire time.

“A shoulder for a shoulder?” Grian reasoned. He was watching Mumbo now, his eyes flitting to Mumbo’s hands then to the ground where the axe was. He was further away from it than Mumbo. Grian licked his lips, and his black eyes fixed on the redstone torch. “Now look at the situation we’re in Mumbo,” Grian said, as if opening a small delightful present. “Either you try and finish me off here or you’ll have to hope you can outrun me until I’m bored?”

Grian took a step back, and Mumbo took a step forward, holding the redstone torch between them as he reached down to pick up the axe.

“Which will it be? Going to kill me, Mumbo?” Grian questioned.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” Mumbo muttered. He eyed the creature in front of him and thought of trying to kill him. But his gut wasn’t in it. Grian was too human and he couldn’t bring himself to imagine trying to end him. It made him queasy. Mumbo wasn’t a killer. “I’ll take my chances running.”

Though he wasn’t running very far carrying an axe and a redstone torch, he’d eventually have to drop the axe. Maybe it’d give Grian pause if he went after it.

“That’s boring,” Grian said, and he drew his hand from his shoulder. “You should give me my axe back. It’s a bit cheatsy-doodles to keep it,” Grian reasoned, holding out a hand.

“Is it? A shame,” Mumbo said and circled to the side of Grian warily, aiming to pass him to get to where he hoped his cabin was.

Grian smiled. “I didn’t need the axe to kill you.” He lunged at Mumbo.

Mumbo sprinted for all dear life and will. He was only a few seconds on when he had to throw the axe to the side and hope dearly it bought him a few seconds.

If Grian stopped that was.

Grian did not.

The birds were silent now, but the ringing in his ears wasn’t. The woods were alive around him, distant growls and snaps and other monsters lurking. Grian was loud, bright laughter sinister in its inhuman tones.

“Mumbo Jumbo,” Grian called. “You can’t run forever!”

He was going to try.

At least till he got to the cabin.

Mumbo damned his eyes to see further through the woods, but of course you couldn’t damn your own body to do anything then what it was created to do. The branches were starting to look like tendrils, like claws, reaching out to grab him as he ran. His redstone torch caught eyes lurking in places they shouldn’t be—too close, yet too far to be reasonably seen.

The eyes couldn’t be only the mindless zombies or wildlife. As they reflected the redstone light back, he saw very clearly: the trees had eyes. So many eyes. All open and watching the spectacle.

A clearing. Mumbo saw gaps in the trees, a space. It had to be the cabin. Thank the heavens. It felt miles away compared to when he walked it earlier.

His feet burned against the ground as he ran. The tongue of his trainers dug into his flesh, his heels hitting harder than a proper runner should, but he was too tired to hold any grace in his movements. Every scratch, every bruise, every ache…every pain he had radiating through his body became known in that moment as possible salvation lurked just out of reach.

The bone deep feeling of being _hunted_ that’s been surrounding him ever since he made that mistake that cost him his normalcy and lead him here. That clawing desperation to evade an unstoppable force…

It was coming to a head now.

“Muuuuuuumboooo,” Grian sang.

They had an audience. He could feel so many eyes on him. Someone—maybe more than one—were waiting for the hunt to come to an end.

Mumbo hit the clearing hard. His shins and heels feeling the impact and change of the ground. He steadied himself out and got to the cabin, opening the thankfully unlocked door. He slammed it behind him and glanced out the window…hoping.

He wouldn’t come.

But Grian emerged from the woods into the clearing. He stood straight backed and alert. He walked with a certainty. There was a level of assured destruction to his easy pace towards the cabin, his unnatural hands in his pockets.

The light from the moon cast a long shadow behind Grian. Even from where he stood, he could see the shadow of wings behind Grian, grotesque bones stripped of feathers in his shadows and his limbs stretched and distorted. As Grian pulled his hands out of his pants, the fingers in his shadow stretched out like horrid branches into the woods, joining with the inky black trees.

Mumbo tore himself from the sight as Grian neared the cabin and barricaded the door and then fled to the only windowless room, the bathroom connected to the bedroom.

Mumbo swiftly locked the bedroom door behind him and felt a wave of adrenaline surge through him at the sight of the window. He flipped the twin size mattress off the cot, the blankets tangling on the ground and shoved it against the window.

Mumbo grabbed the most valuable possessions he had, his wallet and the jar of redstone and dove into the bathroom and closed the door. Even over his dear heart dying in his chest, he heard the knock on the front door.

“Mumbie, Mumbie open uppy,” Grian sang. His voice even muffled sounded distorted through the walls.

A horrifying crack. A splintering of wood. “Muuuuuumbo,” Grian purred. Another crack.

Mumbo knew his defenses wouldn’t last long. He needed a plan. What did he have? Redstone. The torch. How could he weaponize it. His hands were shaking, and the glass jar slipped from his weak grip. The dust spilled all around him.

 _Not now._ Not now!

Mumbo stared at the glass and redstone surrounding him in horror.

He didn’t have time to scoop it up again. He didn’t have time to do anything.

 _CRACK!_ The noise echoed like a gunshot with smaller _crackles_ as the front door came entirely away and he heard Grian’s footsteps inside the cabin.

Keep Grian out. Keep—would it work? Mumbo had the barest the idea.

He hastily got on his hands and knees and gave no thought to the glass digging into his hands as he made a circle of redstone around himself, setting the torch down to use both hands.

 _CRACK! THUMP!_ It was the sound of a body flinging itself against the door to the bedroom. Giggling. “Mumbo Jumbo, you’re not very good at hiding.”

The torch lit up the redstone and it felt… _alive_ but didn’t burn his fingers as he made a rough circle around his person. His hands were caked in _red_. The blood clinging to his hands was now coated in glowing redstone.

He numbly thought, _it can’t be good to mix blood with this stuff._

But there was no time.

Another crash. Apparently, a lock was hopeless. A horrid _SCREECH_ as the door was roughly scraped against the wood floor and _BANG_ as it clattered to the ground near the bathroom.

Mumbo clutched the redstone torch in his hands and kneeled in the redstone circle, holding the torch out in front of him to keep the dust lit.

Grian was on the other side of the bathroom door. He could hear his fingers scraping against the door then a gentle tap.

“ _Mumbo?”_ It was almost a whisper.

He didn’t know why he responded. “Grian?” Mumbo questioned.

“You know, if it helps you die easier,” Grian said quietly. “I would have waited just a little bit longer to try killing you.” He rhythmically tapped his fingers on the door. “But…sometimes I don’t make the rules of the game.”

“Who does?” Mumbo questioned.

“You already know,” Grian said. “Con Corp.” The tapping stopped.

He heard Grian take two steps away and then, with a heavy _THUD_ threw himself against the door. Mumbo saw the door splinter. Grian did it again and Mumbo clutched the redstone torch in both hands to keep himself from dropping it. Fear washed over him, and he shook, awaiting the outcome.

Not now, please.

Not today.

The door broke apart and Mumbo flinched, covering his face with one arm as shards rained down. Grian looked at him through the opening and reached through to unlock the door and swing it out towards himself.

“Huh,” Grian said, and approached the shamble of a redstone circle surrounding Mumbo. “Butter my biscuits. I did not expect this.” He tilted his head and Mumbo looked up at him expectant. Either this worked. Or he died. Slowly and painfully, likely.

Grian got as close as he dared, reaching a foot out to test the circle. A soft _sizzle_ and he drew his sneaker back. Mumbo gripped the torch, daring it to be true.

Grian reached a hand well above the redstone line and near Mumbo’s head and quickly drew his fingers away to his mouth, wincing. The purple grayish tendrils were visible now at the end of his fingers and small trails of smoke lingered in the air from his hand.

Mumbo stared at Grian, knowing it to be true. He couldn’t be touched, let alone killed right now. Grian stared back, shoving his hands in his pockets and just shrugging his shoulders. Grian scoffed and backed up to stand in the doorway. A small amused smile was lurking on the corner of his otherwise neutral expression.

“Don’t suppose you’ll be fainting in the next few moments or leaving the circle?” Grian questioned.

Mumbo felt all his fatigue in that moment, but also a hysterical amount of relief. He laughed, hard. Tears ran down his face and he leaned into his own shoulder to stifle his laughter. He couldn’t even look at Grian anymore, couldn’t even think logically. He was just…overtaken.

He couldn’t die right now.

He wasn’t going to die right now.

And all at once, the immense feeling of desperation left him and the eyes he felt on him were gone. Grian cast a look around Mumbo’s surroundings, and then to the mattress blocking the window. “I see,” Grian said, but it wasn’t to Mumbo. His eyes returned to Mumbo. “Another day, Mumbo Jumbo. But not this one.”

And Grian left. Back out the demolished doors leaving Mumbo to the now quiet cough of a laugh turning into sobs of anguish.

…

Mumbo sat there longer than he should have. Long enough for the idea of moving the shirt from the wound in his shoulder to be a painful ordeal and for the stinging pains in his hands to become all too apparent. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

Instead, he dragged himself numbly to the bathtub and cleaned his hands. His face. And then just leaned against the wall and processed. Mumbo might have slept a few minutes off and on, but he was too in shock to even consider trying to lay down and rest. Mumbo eventually forced himself to do the unpleasant and stripped the bloody, mud-covered clothes and ran a bath. His shoulder had began bleeding again, and he wasn’t sure he could possibly shove it under a stream of water.

It felt like a baptism. Like he was cleaning the sins of the day off as he sat there and slowly worked every ounce of dirt out of his scalp. The water was murky soon, and he was using his only nearby towel, a hand towel, to staunch the flow of blood in his shoulder.

Eventually, he grew brave enough to leave the bathroom and don clothes from the bottoms down, picking up the redstone torch to take with him as he did so. The wreckage of his room was a painful sight to see and he pulled the mattress down from the window when he was dressed.

It was daylight out now.

Mumbo lay down on the cot, fully dressed from waist down with his shoes back on. He glanced down at the sneakers and saw the blood and dirt coating them that were now getting on the otherwise clean bed. Mumbo didn’t take them off.

He lay there. He might have fell asleep once. But not for long. His muscles felt tense and every part of him ached.

Mumbo didn’t want to go back out there. But. What other choice did he have?

He got up and found an old-t-shirt he wouldn’t mind ruining and began tearing it apart with the help of scissors. Soon, he had enough to make a sloppy bandage for his shoulder and dress himself.

It was time to go back out.

Mumbo grabbed the redstone torch and walked over the splinters of wood across the ground. He stood in the doorway of the cabin and looked out, to see a bright, nearly cloudless day.

…

It is finally time.


	7. Trust Exercise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Centipedes, emetophobia, and wrong anatomy.

_Chapter 7: Trust Exercises_

_The Doctor’s Tip #5 “Trust only the you that came in here—not the you you’re becoming or the others around you.”_

The woods do not frighten him nearly as much. They cannot. After all he’s faced, how could they? As he walked to the bone pit, to fetch the reward of his labors, nothing approached him.

His eyes felt heavy, his limbs like static and his heart heavy—no fear will find him today. He had been too afraid all night to have the energy to feel threatened by the sounds around him.

A zombie? A shadow of his sleep-deprived imagination? He doesn’t look twice. The woods seemed distant. Like a spectator from afar that judged his actions one grain at a time. The spectators in the wood reconsidered their earlier judgements, they are reconsidering him, he can feel it. Within his bones.

He has become impervious to the fear of their hunt.

_High low high._

But one of the distant spectators is too obvious. If Mumbo had more energy, more heart in him left, he’d be wary of the flashes of red in the corner of his vision. But he doesn’t. His heart feels as if it’s made of metal.

Pumping organs running coolant through the machinery.

And his red-wearing nightmare keeps his word.

“Not now. Not yet.”

There is no easy way to fall through a bone pit into water.

Mumbo looked to the cut rope, evidence of the fight from hours ago. Decades? It felt like decades. And he looked into the pit.

And knows.

There was no good way down. There was no good time or energy to back track for the proper supplies, if he had any left. Mumbo was too tired to care enough to make that effort. He was…is reckless in his drunken tiredness.

Reckless. Impulsive.

Mumbo jumped into the pit, crossed his arms across his chest and plunged into darkness. It was faster now. It was a sensation he hadn’t wanted to repeat, and unlike the slow descent he made earlier, this one feels like his death.

Dirt went up his nose, into his sleeves, into his hair, and he found a small peace if this was death, he was far more accustomed and ready to accept it than he’d been before. Dirt permeating his senses didn’t seem like a bad way to go.

But it wasn’t death. And his free fall into water wasn’t smooth. His eyes were shocked open by the cold and he lost his breath. He snorted water and coughed deep in his chest before he was composed enough to swim up.

Mumbo hated paddling to shore, but he did so. After a moment of rest. And a few more moments interspersed between attempts.

Joe Hills was waiting for him. “Mumbo Jumbo! Excellent work! You really shined, brighter than snow at noon! You even have all your limbs,” Joe said, taking him by the shoulders and looking him over as he stood. “A herculean feat!”

“Yes,” Mumbo huffed out. “I’d like not to be asked a favor ever again. If you’d be so kind.”

Joe Hills chuckled. “I can’t say I will be. Come on, come on. See the beast you’ve triumphed. He’s in a…mood.” Joe pulled a towel from his shoulder and handed it to Mumbo, who accepted it. He dried his face and hair and wrapped it around his shoulders.

Joe beckoned him around the side of the cabin where a quaint shed sat, pretty for its surroundings. Bluebells planted on either side of its door and overgrown grass surrounding its edges. “You’ve made equal parts enemies and friends today,” Joe remarked.

Mumbo nodded absently, “Hm.”

“No frets about this being a terrible mistake or smiles for your grand victory?” Joe questioned. He peered at Mumbo curiously, pushing his glasses further up on his nose.

“I’m not thinking of anything to be quite honest,” Mumbo admitted.

“Dangerous thing,” Joe said. “Not thinking. Your brain is the--”

“So, where’s the wings?’ Mumbo interrupted.

“Away,” Joe said with a soft sigh. “I’ll fetch them shortly. I’ll let you have a seat with Ren. He did have some choice words for you.” Joe said. “Maybe you can even out each other’s strings. Point them out for one another.” Joe unlocked the padlock on the shed with a large ornate key and pushed it open to reveal a large cage, nearly the size of a small room within. It took up most of the shed, a makeshift jail for a now very much human Ren.

His yellow eyes went to Mumbo first. His sunglasses were on his head, and those wolf eyes were full of menace. Even separated by bars and weighted by fatigue, he felt goosebumps on the back of his neck. The werewolf man looked no worse for wear. His suspenders were properly fastened, his jeans clean, and his t-shirt tucked in at the side.

Still.

“I’d rather wait outside,” Mumbo said.

Joe clapped a hand on his shoulder and none too subtly, pushed him into the shed, his free hand spinning the key between his fingers. Mumbo reluctantly took a few steps forward and then glanced back to see Joe stepping out, waving a goodbye.

“I’ll be back. I have errands to run before I grab the wings and ferry you both back up,” Joe said, leaving Mumbo standing alone in the shed with Ren.

That was a very audible click and scrape of the padlock being relocked. Mumbo eyed the door to the shed, then Ren questioningly.

“I didn’t want to speak to you,” Ren clarified for Mumbo’s sake. “Joe is… Joe. He meddles.” He sat back down on the ground, leaning against a crate labeled “dog bones.” He was staring at the wall, and Mumbo followed his gaze, sitting down on a spare crate as well.

On the wall was an ornate wall sculpture. It was the defining piece besides the bars in the shed. It was of a metal, maybe iron? It was in the shape of a tree with branches that became other animals the further they drifted from the trunk. Animals, bugs, and shapes he couldn’t really make out.

He glanced to the floor of shed. It was oak. The smell told him that much. It was very much dusty in here and smelt a little musty. Not too unpleasant, but there was also a faint aroma of honey and the sweet tang of fruits, and he found a few shelves of jars of various preserved goods stuffed into the corner.

A spider web in the corner of the room held exactly one spider. A large one. It was thankfully on the side of the bars Ren was on.

Mumbo was so transfixed examining the shed, he almost didn’t catch Ren’s sigh and quiet, “why?”

The mustached man startled. He turned to look at Ren who was looking at him now. He had pulled his legs against his chest and had his knees drawn up to rest his arms on them. “Why’d you do it?”

Mumbo shrugged. “I’m not sure what you mean…”

Ren shook his head. He twiddled his fingers together where they were interlocked together on his knees. He glanced to the side, in thought then back to Mumbo. “You obviously made a deal. Why? What was it for?”

He almost didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. “Grian’s wings.”

Ren raised a hand to his mouth, an ran a hand over his jar. He locked his hands together tighter now, scoffing. “Unbelievable.” Ren was muttering more, but Mumbo couldn’t hear it. He spoke up finally. He wasn’t looking at Mumbo. “You asked me before if I was trapped here.” Ren scoffed again and it turned into a dark chuckle. “Yes. I am. But,” another grim laugh. “I. Was. Almost. Out.” Ren punctuated; his tone was full of loathing. He looked to Mumbo now, fixing him with a cold stare.

Mumbo cringed under the stare but didn’t look away from Ren as he continued. “Unlike your lot, I _chose_ to be here _knowing_ what was in the woods,” Ren admitted. “I just needed a safe…retreat. You’ve seen what I am, Mumbo.”

“A werewolf?” Mumbo questioned.

“Yes, more layers, but yes,” Ren said. “And all I needed was to last a year more. I’d have control over it. I’d be able to live in my apartment, work my job, and it’d be a little quirk to my ever day life. But you…” Ren stood now and crossed to the bars to glare down at Mumbo. “You traded my freedom to help the one person that doesn’t need any more help.”

“It’s not that simple,” Mumbo snapped. “I did it to protect myself. I’m not cut out for this Ren,” at this he saw Ren’s eye roll and Mumbo felt a small wave of anger. “This, this is more Con Corp’s fault than mine and you know it!”

Ren raised an eyebrow but didn’t speak.

“You had a deal too. It had to be,” Mumbo paused to think it over. “You…you weren’t supposed to be caught by Joe Hills, so…your deal was to avoid him?” Mumbo questioned.

“To distract him,” Ren corrected. “But yes.”

“Then what? You’d be…How was Con Corp supposed to help you?” Mumbo questioned.

“Sc—Control. He--they’d help me control it. Con Corp. I could have control when turning. No more accidents,” Ren said with a huff. Mumbo nodded unconsciously, and Ren’s eyes locked in on him. “Seems we all want to ‘fix’ an accident in our lives. Your life, Mumbo—who’d you hurt?”

“Not the point,” Mumbo countered.

“Oh, but isn’t it?” Ren smarted. He gripped the bars and leaned in close. “Joe tried the same argument. Blame Con Corp. Tch,” Ren glanced away and back. “You know… Everyone has a negative outlook on them here, but I don’t know one entirely human person who has came here who didn’t already have a mountain of skeletons in their closet.” Ren pressed himself against the bars and grinned. “So, what skeletons do you have, Mumbo?”

Mumbo leaned away. He tightened his hands into fists. “They choose desperate people—”

“Extenuating circumstances or people who chose—”

“No one chooses to intentionally do what I did,” Mumbo snapped. Ren had struck gold. “No one with good morals,” Mumbo said.

“But I never said you had good morals, Mumbo Jumbo. Can you say someone forced your hand?” Ren questioned. “Like who forced you to give Grian his wings?”

“I’d have been fired! In this case, I’d have died!”

Ren laughed. “If Grian wanted you dead—”

“He tried. I just—”

“But you’re still here…”

Mumbo stood. He gestured angrily. “Yes, but I had no way of knowing. I don’t have any way of knowing now!” Mumbo shouted. “You act like I know anything. That I’m somehow capable of seeing that I was going to ruin your life. Ruin my own. I didn’t _know,_ ” Mumbo said, a pleading tone entering his voice. “I don’t know. Everyone around me always seems to know more than me, so if you’d be so kind to either inform me or get off your sodding high horse.”

He was at the bars, inches from Ren, his own hands curled around the bars. Ren was staring at him. He’d backed away from the bar a few inches, his jaw slack and eyes widening slowly. Mumbo followed his gaze and saw his hands glowing. “Oh, my word.” Red. The redstone. It was glowing where the cuts in his hands were.

Ren recovered. He took another step back and regarded Mumbo warily. He puffed his chest up. “There’s always a consequence, Mumbo. Maybe we don’t know what it is, but…maybe we do.” Ren crossed his arms across his chest. “Before our mutual acquaintance Joe Hills comes back, I’d like to inform you, you’re banned from the gas station. And if you lose anything or come crawling to me for help, I won’t be helping you.”

Mumbo nodded, but his attention wasn’t on Ren. He let go of the bars and ran his fingers over his right hand. Over the glowing cuts. The glass cuts hurt, but it wasn’t anything worse than what he’d expect. The glow was fading, but it was so similar to the redstone torch. A pit formed deep in his stomach.

“Why?” Mumbo asked himself, but no one answered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ren shaking his head in disgust and they both heard the rattling of the lock. They turned to the door.

“Did you have a good conversation, gentlemen?” Joe questioned.

“You haven’t swayed any minds here,” Ren said. “Not all of us are gung-ho anti-Con Corp.”

“You should be,” Joe said. “He turned to Mumbo. “I have your wings out here.” Over Mumbo’s shoulder. “I’ll get you back first, Ren. I imagine you’ll have a call to make,” Joe said knowingly, and Ren rolled his eyes.

“Yes,” Ren snapped. He shot a look to Mumbo. “I hope I never see you again.”

Mumbo nodded, “Same to you,” he said, not unkindly.

“If you could wait outside,” Joe said, stepping to the side to let Mumbo out of the shed. “You’ll find the wings sitting on the bench around the side.

Mumbo gladly left the shed and walked around the small patch of bluebells and a Pomeranian chewing on a frisbee to see a bench with a pair of gray wings. They were folded and retained shape of large bird-like wings. He wasn’t sure what he expected. A dog sniffed them curiously, but at the sight of Mumbo scampered away.

They were sure unfitting for a monstrous creature like Grian. Hopefully, they weren’t fake. He sighed and ranked his hands through his hair and sat beside the wings and leaned back.

He was too emotionally spent to be thinking about the past or even the present. 

No one had ever forced his hand. It was really a mistake.

Not an accident.

It was…intentional to a degree. Mistaken intentions, not good or bad, really. Mumbo hadn’t meant to do harm. Mumbo groaned and distracted himself with the sight of dogs, but his mind was replaying that damning conversation.

…

“Hurry up and sign off on it. I checked it. It’s fine. We won’t get good parking at the pub if we leave any later.”

“I can’t be sure, but I think the math is off. The equation used for the base on the logarithm seems too short for the model. If we redo the calculations, I think the base would end up—”

“I checked it. It’s fine. Let’s go.”

“As section head. If I sign this off, and weeks from now we hear about a radio that’s stuck in an infinite loop.”

“It won’t be.” A gentle slap on the door frame. “Meet you in a few at the pub.”

His friend left and Mumbo sat behind the computer, his mouth still hovering over the line. He tapped the end of his pen on his lips and then lowered it down to the hastily scribbled math.

Mumbo looked at the clock. 19:29. Department heads had already been so arsed about time, lamenting in emails the money lost from people staying too late in the office.

He maneuvered away from the program and to the form. He left no notes about the possible error and electronically signed his name and hit submit, wadding up the notes and tossing them into the trash beside his desk.

…

Joe startled him. He lifted his hand from Mumbo’s shoulder and smiled kindly. “I already ferried Ren back up. I figured it’d be best if you separately traveled up.”

“Yes. I…” Mumbo waved it off. “It’d be best. It is best,” he stammered out.

Joe just smiled patiently. He patted Mumbo’s shoulder again. “Consequences abound, and Ren and you have given each other the headspace to reflect on your varying misdeeds,” Joe said knowingly.

Mumbo snorted, “Lovely.” If Ren too was stuck reflecting on whatever he’d done, then good for him, but Mumbo didn’t want to be in any other headspace than surviving until he could escape this place. He grabbed the wings which were not heavy, but large and cumbersome to carry. “I’ll be happy to leave now.”

Joe sat on the bench beside him instead. “Just one more truth, Mumbo. I owe you one for your good company, and maybe one for the road so next time you’re lacking in truth you consider me a good source,” Joe said, holding up his hand to stop Mumbo from getting up. Mumbo tensed and frowned at Joe but didn’t stand up.

Joe smiled and turned his gaze out to the dogs. “Besides my attempt to teach two old dogs some new tricks, I confess I benefit from this. I am using you, Mumbo, for my own means,” Joe paused to glance to Mumbo and gauge his reaction. Mumbo was not surprised by this ‘truth.’ “My own means, which put you further into a spotlight by…our Con Corp watchers,” Joe said, a small hinting smile.

“Go on,” Mumbo said.

“And the second truth,” Joe looked out to the plains. “You’re a threat and distraction to Con Corp right now. They’ll be watching you closely to determine what to do with you. You are, as I hoped, a little…whimsical.” Joe gestured to Mumbo’s hands, and Mumbo drew them away, a little perturbed. “It’s best you rethink your allies at all times and don’t forget whose eyes belong to Con Corp. If you _really_ want to escape. You’re on the wrong track,” Joe said, inclining his head to the wings.

Mumbo wiped his sweaty palms off on the wings. “I think I’ll judge for myself what the right track is for escape.”

“Don’t trust your own judgement, Mumbo,” Joe said. “But…if you must. Know there’s more people and creatures in Con Corp’s pocket than not. Don’t lose your non-Con Corp allies.”

“I see…I’ll consider this,” Mumbo was not going to consider this anytime soon. He was tired and did not feel like riddling out answers from colorful discussions.

Joe nodded and whistled for a dog, which came bounding over. It was the golden retriever from the pit earlier with a red collar. “Take her collar and she’ll get you back to the pit. Sorry to make you walk back to your home, but I figured you might want to finish that deal unless you’re planning to…keep the wings?” Joe questioned and suggested all at once.

Mumbo shook his head. He wanted them gone.

“Then I’ll have to drop you off at the pit. Their owner is waiting. Don’t keep your eyes open while the dog transports you,” Joe supplied helpfully. “Goodbye, Mumbo. We will see each other again.”

Mumbo looked at the dog. The dog looked at Joe. Joe waited patiently.

Mumbo shifted the wings to one arm, tucking them under his chin to keep them from slipping and grabbed the dog’s collar carefully. He glanced to Joe and sighed. “Goodbye, Joe Hills.” Mumbo closed his eyes.

It was like his previous attempt exiting the pit, and despite it being faster, it was somehow just as painful. His chest was compressed by pounds of dirt, and bones jabbed him in every tender area. Yet. He was out in under a minute. The dog barked and he opened his eyes to the sun overhead the pavilion. The bone pit was behind him.

And Grian, was leaning against a pillar, his arms crossed and his back to Mumbo.

His face was angled up to the sun, soaking it in. He hadn’t turned to acknowledge Mumbo and continued to play aloof. The dog barked again, impatient and Mumbo released her collar and fumbled to adjust his hold on the wings.

They were covered in dirt now, but otherwise still whole.

The dog disappeared back into the bone pit and Mumbo approached Grian slowly. Black eyes opened and he turned to him, a smile already on the damn gremlin’s face.

“Just the man I’ve been stood here waiting for with,” faux surprise lit up his features, “oh my goodness, my wings!” Grian looked as pleased as Punch. “A glorious sight! I could just cry, tears of joy I assure you.” Grian made grabby hands for his wings.

Mumbo sighed. Maybe this was the worst choice he could have made. “And our deal?”

“Honored. This is the beautiful start to a wonderful partnership. We’ll be the best of pals,” Grian said, grinning and showing off his rows of teeth.

Mumbo handed him the wings, although he found himself a little reluctant. Maybe throwing them back to Joe and being slaughtered on the spot would benefit everyone far more. Grian’s grin only grew, unnatural in its enormity. Surely, his jaw wasn’t that large. Nor his face. Grian cradled his wings to his chest for a moment, that faux surprise—or maybe it had been real?—still on his face. He glanced up at Mumbo, his grin drifting into a much less disturbing satisfied smirk.

“You might want to look away if you have a queasy stomach,” Grian warned.

Mumbo didn’t move. He didn’t know what was going to happen, but he supposed seeing it would not ruin his—come to think of it, empty stomach. Good heavens, he had not eaten for…so long.

Grian tilted his head, taking Mumbo’s lack of action as affirmation he was okay seeing this. Grian rolled his shoulders back and sucked in a breath and grit his teeth. Then, an awful sound. It was like something loudly and wetly digging through a freshly opened corpse that might still be half-alive. The blood was gurgling around an opening and out of his back came a pair of bone-white branches.

They were covered in a vaguely gray purplish sludge, maybe Grian’s blood? Strings of…fungi? Viscera? White strings of something were hanging off the branches and within the sludge. In his half-awake brain his mind first thought of wet cabbage or onions, but the way the viscera dripped off the branches and oozed onto the ground and then…

The white strings writhed and twisted and moved. They squirmed into the ground. White centipedes, thin and long were coming out of Grian’s back where he had formed the two white branches or what must be his bones. And with their movements from Grian’s flesh came soft squelching noises and one of the many centipedes touched his shoe.

Mumbo grasped his stomach and dry heaved. There was nothing in his stomach to throw up, so nothing but spittle came up, but he keeled over. Mumbo braced himself on the pillar to give himself some relief from the last of Grian shaking out his limbs from the sludge and then gently affixing his wings to them.

Mumbo shouldn’t have looked back up.

The centipede esque creatures were helping secure the wings and he nearly gagged again. They…those centipedes came _out of him_. _My word_. Mumbo was horrified.

Grian glanced to him once his wings were mostly secured, a too righteous, “told you so” on his face.

“I can reform most of my limbs when they’re removed,” Grian said in small explanation of not much of his biology. “The feathers and structure of my wings…not so much. That and my head are pretty irreplaceable. As they’re both a gift!”

Mumbo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Grnn,” he just huffed out. A wave of nausea swept over him as his hunger and fatigue hit him like an axe to the face and then the event he just witnessed, another axe to the stomach. Mumbo leaned against the pillar.

“Tell you what!” Grian waved his hands, and flexed his newly repaired wings, which still had some centipedes crawling between the feathers. “How about a free ride back to that cabin? We’re friends now, Mumbo, and you look like easy pickings for any harrowing creatures to munch on, no offense.”

“Nn,” Mumbo muttered. He didn’t want anywhere near Grian. He wanted to lay down here, thank you very much. He didn’t trust Grian and he took one step back and felt his body catching up to the time warp of being in Joe’s…place and now here. He was severely dehydrated, malnourished and fatigued.

Grian caught his shoulders and Mumbo vaguely felt the smaller man lift him under his armpits, those wings spreading out behind him.

It was not a magical experience. It felt rather like what a mouse must feel being picked up by the talons of a hawk and carried off to be fed to its youth. He was deposited on his doorstep and Grian pat him on the back heartily, nearly sending him to the ground.

“I’ve got some flying to do. It’s been _ages_ since I’ve been able to and I’m in such a good spirit,” Grian announced, leaving Mumbo to lean against his front door, barely conscious. “Bye, Mumbo!”

Mumbo made it inside before fainting.

…

He wasn’t sure how long he was out, but there’s no miracle transition to his bed, well rested. He instead wakes up feeling as if the sleep was meaningless, his stomach already growling. His senses return to him slowly and his throat feels like the Sahara Desert. His bruises have turned into one steady ache and he is still uncomfortably sprawled in the doorway of the cabin. Judging by the fact there are doors, the cabin has repaired itself.

Mumbo opened his eyes more and spotted his spectral roommate, Bdubs, pacing nervously a few feet away. His form was foggier than usual and he seemed to be muttering. It seemed they both made it out of their respective situations alive or well, not entirely dead.

Mumbo pushed himself into a sitting position and drew Bdubs attention. The specter crossed over to him, his hands fretting and hovering over Mumbo, unable to touch, but clearly wanting to help him. “Oh, thank goodness you’re alive! I mean I hear the door open and then you just…and you know I just saw Grian, and I’m not sure if that means you’re dead or well and if the deal worked out. I can’t feel a pulse or move you or even have a way of telling if you’re alive so if you’d been dead I wouldn’t have been able to know and—” Bdubs stopped himself and took an unnecessary deep breath, attempting to calm himself.

Mumbo could see he was shaking. If this situation hadn’t been so rotten Mumbo would have been touched the man cared so deeply. Bdubs calmed himself, gripping his pants fabric and said, “My goodness! Glad that’s over! Here I thought I’d had quite the adventure.” Unconsciously, Bdubs had resumed pacing. “But you…not that you’re any less handsome and sweet than before…you just look like a—a receipt paper that’s faced the washer and dryer.”

A raspy chuckle left Mumbo’s mouth. Bdubs looked to him and Mumbo started to stand, bracing himself against the wall. Weirdly, he still had some energy. A miracle. Enough energy to at least start the day.

He ate, drank, showered until the memories of centipedes crawling out of Grian faded and ate some more, because he still was starving after inhaling two sleeves of crackers.

Bdubs accompanied him when appropriate, providing a running commentary over most of his actions about how he’d just gotten out of the mines and then had to navigate the woods and seeing as Mumbo was gone when he got back he’d been mighty worried.

“Despite being intangible, it’s very easy to get lost! And those things in the woods still see me and go towards me,” Bdubs said with a small shake of his head. “Oh! And did I mention! I found out I can’t go through everything. If there’s any little bits with redstone in them, even if I can’t see it, they feel like fire to go near and are entirely impossible to go through. I tried just to be sure. Not that I particularly like the feeling of my not-so-existent skin being burned—after all, bad memories from redstone.”

“Bdubs, not to be rude,” Mumbo interrupted. “But have you got a map or can explain it a bit better?” Mumbo questioned. “I don’t think—I’m not sure with what you’ve given me I could navigate the mines any better than going in blind.”

Bdubs thought about that. “No, but I can do you one better. I can be your Adriane’s thread! Your guide through the mines.”

“Right,” Mumbo said, and busied himself finishing his food. He didn’t want to hurt Bdubs feelings by suggesting the ghost wouldn’t make a good guide.

“Also, I saw another ghost, between, thing-like-me in the mines,” Bdubs remembered. “But he wasn’t very talkative. At least, not to me. He just kept mining. He could actually break stone with his picaxe, mind you—he must be a lot stronger of a ghost.”

“Anything else to beware of?” Mumbo questioned.

Bdubs thought. “Lots of zombies too!”

“And?” Mumbo said through a mouthful of grits.

“Er,” Bdubs rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh…yes. Sorry, almost forgot. The exit is blocked.” Mumbo looked at him sharply. “The one you described. I think…now, not to upset your already tumultuous partnership with Grian…it did show signs of him being the one to do it. Specifically, a sign saying he did it in pretty clear terms. The only two exits I did find were…er…the one that exits at a Greek like building. What was the term for it—oh, a Pseudoperipteral building. Versus a perip—"

“Bdubs—”

“Yes. Yes. Er. There’s that structure. It…it seems like a crypt and the other exit is near to Grian’s little hidey hole.”

“How dangerous is the Pseudo-whatever structure?”

“It had lots of spiders and…mannequins!”

Mumbo put his spoon down. “Ma—what?”

“You heard me correctly,” Bdubs said.

“I…” Mumbo took a few gulps of water. “I did. I was…am trying to consider if that’s worse to face than Grian.”

“But you’re friends or in a good deal with him now, right?” Bdubs questioned.

Mumbo shook his head. “His idea of friendship is not…reputable.”

“Oh,” Bdubs said. He thought on it and shrugged. “He’s likely better than spiders. These were big spiders. Think Lord of the Rings or er…Harry Potter.”

“Least they wouldn’t prolong killing me,” Mumbo muttered. “I’m not too sure about the deal now that I’m of a little clearer mind.” Mumbo wiped his face off with a napkin. “He may not even hold up his end of the bargain.”

“Most deals here are as solid as—as diamond.”

“Diamond can be broken.”

“Solider than whatever can’t be broken!” Bdubs said, indignant. He waved his arms for emphasis and sighed, his tone and form suddenly diminishing all at once. “I just—I just know that no matter how much you like or dislike or even…trust someone, a deal here under Con Corp is the strongest deal. None are ever broken without deadly or worse than death fates,” Bdubs said quietly. He drifted away from Mumbo, absently scuffing his feet on the ground, looking annoyed when they just dipped into the floor.

“Did you break a deal?” Mumbo questioned.

Bdubs glanced to him. “No,” he looked sad. “No, not me. I’m a casualty in someone else’s deal, you could say.” Bdubs sighed. “I did promise you my sad ole backstory when we met up again, didn’t I? If you’re willing…?” Bdubs questioned.

Mumbo nodded, but his mouth felt dry. “If you’re sure.”

“No,” Bdubs said immediately. Another sigh. “But it’ll clear some things up. I…I lied earlier. I did almost get out. It just… Wasn’t by my own merit.” Bdubs crossed his arms over his chest.

Mumbo pushed his empty dishes away and rested his arms on the table, leaning forward to listen to Bdubs intently.

“I didn’t have the brains or natural survival instinct. All I had was…good ole friendship. I recognized…well, you’ll know him as Keralis. Old buddy of mine. He disappeared a couple years before I got here.”

Bdubs uncrossed his arms, and one hand scratched at the back of his neck. “Last phone call we had was to be terse…distressing. He—he was in a dark place. But,” Bdubs pushed his arms away from himself, a little bit of fervor in his voice. “I knew. I _knew_ something was up, but it was like he disappeared entirely. All traces gone. Couldn’t even see his old socials. Just…” Bdubs mimed a puff of smoke.

Mumbo nodded, and Bdubs sighed, looking at Mumbo and then at the floor, drumming his fingers on his legs before giving up and pacing once more. “Missing, likely dead, they said,” Bdubs waved his hand, frowning. “All the things he said they thought meant…” Bdubs broke off and his hand fell. “I didn’t—I didn’t think so. I guess, part of me just wanted to hold on that a dear friend was alive. And part of me,” the fervor returned. “Part of me was suspicious.”

“So, when we first saw each other…” Bdubs tone soured. He stopped pacing, his back to Mumbo. “He used to come alone. It was easier to talk to him, just pull him aside and share what little we knew. Keralis had been in our shoes, but he had some talents they liked, and he made a deal. No more staying in the cabin, he’d be an employee. Not free, but,” Bdubs snorted. “It’d look better than being like you or me.”

He resumed pacing. “Two years in their employ, and he knew little more than I did. Just…he was nervous telling me anything. Nothing important I could really—I could really tell you. It was all—maybe it wasn’t useless,” Bdubs rubbed his neck again, before running a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Gah! I just, I don’t want to remember. He had this _brilliant_ idea for how he could at least get me out. He said if I could get out, then I could help him and—”

Bdubs went silent. For too long. Mumbo gently said, “But they found out.”

“Yeah,” Bdubs said. When he turned to face Mumbo he was crying. “Mr. Cubfan himself. He made a new deal with Keralis.”

“Bdubs,” Mumbo said sympathetically.

“It’s…I’ve…I’ve almost forgiven Keralis. I’m just—” Bdubs wiped at the tears and sucked in a breath. “I’m not ready. I need—It was the day we planned to escape.” He crossed his arms tightly across his chest. “He just said we needed to grab something from behind the cabin, but as you can imagine, it was a trap and I’m _so stupid._ ” Bdubs sniffled and sucked in a huge breath and spoke quicker now. “I fell. Broke some bones. Before whatever re-engaged and I was,” Bdubs clapped his hands together. “Don’t remember much else. Except coming to outside the cabin like—like this,” Bdubs gestured down to his form.

“I’m sorry,” Mumbo said.

“It’s…it’s best to just get out by your own merits,” Bdubs said. “And trust the right people. I didn’t and,” a hard smile, “look what happened to me."

Mumbo pushed away from the table, his mind spinning. The haunting words of those tips on the journal, he was almost sure he could remember them. Who around him could he trust? And, Mumbo looked at his hands, where the redstone had glowed from where it had worked its way into his cuts, could he even trust himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act 1, finished. Act 2, begins.


End file.
